The Weight of Power
by Nefhiriel
Summary: Years have passed since Aragorn came to Rohan, serving under the name of Thorongil. Now, an unknown adversary threatens Rohan, and Aragorn, as usual, is caught up in the middle of it.
1. Past and Present

**The Weight of Power **

_By Nefhiriel_

**Rating: **T/PG-13

**Genre: **Action/Adventure/Angst

**Summary: **Years have passed since Aragorn came to Rohan, serving under the name of Thorongil. Now, an unknown adversary threatens Rohan, and Aragorn--as usual--is caught up in the middle of it.

**Disclaimer: **Middle Earth along with its incredible characters all belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This is completely non-profit.

**Loads of Gratitude go to: **_Firstly to my betas! **Imbecamiel** is the best sister/beta ever. I would never have finished this without you, muinthel-nin. –hugs- And more hugs and thanks to **Niroveka**—thank you so very much, mellon-nin, for all the polishing and beta-ing you've done to this tome of mine! I have the best and most patient of editors in the two of you. (Dictionary def. for Niro & Cami: long-suffering above and beyond the call of duty :-)_

_I'd like to thank **viggomaniac**, as well, for all she's done to encourage me on past stories, and for editing the first couple of chapters of this._

**A/N: I know I'm going to end up getting long-winded here… -glances above- Okay, make that _more _long-winded. But please humor me, this thing took me a while to finish. It's _long_ (the story, that is, although this "brief" intro took some time and effort too…). **

**Firstly: I tried to make this as factual, and accurate to the books as possible. It's been quite difficult, seeing how Thorongil's service in Rohan is hardly more than mentioned in the appendices of RotK. To quote: "He Aragorn rode in the host of the Rohirrim…". Yup. That's all. So, not withstanding the _heaps_ of information I had to go on (-sigh-), I had to "make up" a great deal. I tried to be thorough in thinking things through (with much, much, _much _help from Imbecamiel), and doing research, so I hope most of my elaborations are accurate. Feel free to point any errors out to me (although, for the sake of the plot, many things—AU or not—will just have to stay as they are, now that it is finished).**

**Secondly, several small AUs: In this story, I have Théoden's age somewhere between seven and eight. I do realize that he might very well have been closer to his twenties (though ages are vague, since I don't have an exact timeline for how long Thorongil stayed in Rohan), and possibly served _beside _Thorongil while he was in Rohan. However, for the sake of the story, I decided it would be less complicated to have him be a child, rather than an adult. Also, I have Morwen pregnant with Théodwyn. Since Théodwyn was actually born in Gondor, that too is off by a number of years. I have decided as well not to give Thengel any sisters, or at least not to have them present in this fic. So, if he does have sisters they are either conveniently dead or…elsewhere. **

**ThirdlyJust to make things absolutely clear, for those of you who don't know: Aragorn equals Estel equals Strider equals Thorongil. Also, you might notice I start out at the beginning calling him Aragorn, that being the name that comes most naturally to my mind for him. Later on in the story, I ease into actually calling him Thorongil. **

**And _lastly_ (-ignores loud cheering coming from remnant of remaining AN-readers-): In case you missed it in my bio, all my stories are slash-free. **

**I think that's all… Hope you enjoy it.**

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_Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power._  
-Abraham Lincoln

**Chapter 1: Past and Present **

Memories.

Unbidden, they had come to him, evocative, haunting…and comforting. The inescapable pang of longing had faded, to be replaced by a deep-seated sense of nostalgia. This time, he hadn't even bothered with any pretences of resistance, merely surrendering and allowing his thoughts to be whisked away to another life and time.

He had pushed the same thoughts away many times, but for now, he felt he needed the memories. No matter how painful it might be, at times, to dredge the past back up, he couldn't let himself forget. For now, he might be forced to abandon one of the most cherished chapters in his life, but he could revisit that chapter wherever his present life led him, if only in memory.

The fire crackling peacefully on the hearth could be any fire on any hearth. The room around him, obliterated by shadow as it was, could have been a room anywhere. In his wistful, reflective state of mind, he was all too susceptible to accepting such a suggestion, vague and fanciful as it might be. But his imagination did not lead him to just _any_ room, sitting before just _any_ fire. It brought him back many years to a younger, carefree, and unburdened time, when he had yet to learn of all the responsibility that rested, and would rest more heavily on him. It brought him back to a hall, echoing with the musical sound of elven laughter and song. He could almost hear his brothers' voices now as they teased him…

A gust of wind whistled down the chimney, causing the fire to hiss and flicker. One of the larger logs broke in half. The sound seemed deafening in the early-morning silence, and it effectively startled Aragorn out of his reverie. Ingrained soldier's reflexes made him sit up straight at the sudden noise, hands clenching the paper that rested in his lap. In another second, he was able to refocus on the present reality around him. He relaxed back into his chair, feeling more than a little ridiculous at his paranoid reaction to one of the simplest noises of everyday life.

Rubbing the lingering sleep out of his eyes with one hand, he laid the letter out on the desk beside him with the other. Reverently, he smoothed out the creases where his hands had crumpled the paper, and lightly ran a finger over the first line on the page.

_Ion-nín._

How could two simple words evoke such longing? At the moment, Aragorn felt he would have given nearly anything if he could only hear the sender of the letter say those words. To hear Elrond say it. To hear his _Adar_ say it. He wanted to see that particular look of tenderness in the wise elven lord's eyes, the one that never failed to erase any seed of doubt concerning his love for his human son. He didn't doubt his father's love for him, but it had been so many years since he'd seen him. Reading this letter from Elrond, so full of his warmth and concern, reopened an aching desire to be with his elven family again.

And then there was Arwen. The years could do nothing to dim his love for her. Even with images of her beauty burnt into his mind, he had prayed for the Valar to remove his desire for her. His love, reciprocated, would kill her. It was the cruelest irony he could think of: the very object of his affection would fade before his eyes if he were bold enough to reach for it.

Purposefully, he began to file these thoughts away, forcing the melancholy to recede. Why was it that he always seemed to succumb to this depressing mood around this time of year? For weeks, morose feelings of homesickness would bombard him, and sooner or later he had to relent, or they would continue to bombard him until he felt he would go half-mad from the repressed emotions.

Well, hopefully, all this brooding would do him some good. Perhaps he could even focus today, without his mind wandering off in the middle of council meetings. Even on a _normal_ day, those were hard to survive. Lately, they'd only just fallen short of torture.

A number of years had gone by since he had come to Rohan, and he was learning much. He felt a kinship and loyalty to his men, as well as to Thengel, King of Rohan. He had spent years fighting and bleeding with these men. He was prepared to die along side, or _for_ these men, and he knew they would do the same for him without hesitation. Strong bonds had grown between them, and he knew that a part of his heart would always be tied to this land of the horse-lords.

But he had known from the very start that, one day, he would have to move on. He still didn't have a clear idea of what he was to move on _to_, but wanderlust was stirring within him again, if only faintly. This was not his final destination, he reminded himself resolutely. Something told him he would see many more places, and wander much further before he would find either rest, or a true home. His journey was not over yet, of that much he was certain.

However, the desire to wander was only beginning to tug at him. The time to pull up his roots had not arrived yet, he realized with some relief. There was no telling, perhaps he would remain for another year, or perhaps five, but he would know when the time was right. Right now, there were too many things that needed doing, and too many ties he couldn't bear to break. Thengel needed him. The King couldn't afford to lose a captain so abruptly. He wanted to see Théoden grow up. And, truth be told, he couldn't even begin to think of how he'd ever come up with the right words to explain a sudden departure to Araedhelm. However close they were, he doubted his trusted lieutenant suspected the full extent of his captain's inner turmoil.

Sliding open the drawer of the desk next to him, Aragorn folded the paper, and set it on top of another neat stack of letters inside. He picked up a small, silver key from off the desk, slid the drawer back and locked it. A light knock sounded on the door just as he was looping the chain, upon which the key was strung, around his neck.

"Come in," he said quietly.

An older woman with light brown hair—mostly overrun by gray—bustled in, tray in hand. "Good morning, my lord," she offered cheerfully, her pleasant face beaming.

"Good morning,Feorh," he returned the greeting, rising from his seat.

"Oh, sit down, my lord, I've only brought you a bit of breakfast."

"Feorh… "He smiled gently. "You really don't need to get up this early, just because of me. I was planning on grabbing something from the kitchens on my way out. Please don't, on my account—"

The woman interrupted, harrumphing good-naturedly. "Nonsense! And risk you getting in any more trouble with the cook than you already are? I wouldn't be so cruel." In a decisive gesture that meant she would clearly brook no further argument, she set the tray down on a nearby table.

Aragorn just barely succeeded in suppressing a chuckle. "Thank you, Feorh."

"I also packed you something for your lunch. It's none of my affair if you choose to rise at such an ungodly hour, to go off gallivanting with Lieutenant Araedhelm. But I will see that you're at least well fed. My Lord the King would never forgive me if I allowed one of his best captains to starve to death." Her triumphant smile turned into a scowl. "Now where is that boy? He was right behind me…" She turned to the door. "Stolan! Stolan, where are you boy?"

At her call, a lanky young man stumbled through the doorway, his blond hair still tousled from sleep. Seemingly unaware of his surroundings, the boy's eyes were drooped so far shut that only a sliver of his glazed blue eyes showed. He was swaying so violently, Aragorn thought that he would fall over for sure.

Feorh shook her head in a mixture of exasperation and fondness. "Stolan, wake up, boy. The Captain will die of old age waiting for you to give him that pack. Come on, give it here."

Stolan's head shot up at the word "captain", his startled eyes focusing on Aragorn. "Captain Thorongil." He quickly slung the satchel from off his shoulder. "I-I didn't realize…"

Aragorn stepped forward to intercept the pack. "Don't worry Stolan." He winked at the boy. "Not all of us are natural early-risers."

Stolan smiled gratefully, ducking his head in lingering embarrassment. Mentally kicking himself, he tried to save face by not looking too mortified. Of course, that only served to make his face turn redder.

Aragorn dropped the pack onto his bed, and reached for his over-coat. He should have known better; Feorh blocked his way, hands on hips.

"You'll not be running off on me before you've had your breakfast—with all due respect, my _lord_."

Aragorn sat down and allowed her to pour him a hot drink. "No…of course not. The thought had never even occurred to me."

Feorh narrowed her eyes at him in an all-seeing manner. "Just see that it doesn't."

Stolan stood silently next to the door, watching Feorh with something between admiration and horror as she continued to manipulate and order Captain Thorongil around. In many ways, he was more intimidated by his aunt than the Captain.

Good naturedly, Aragorn allowed Feorh to fuss and hover over him until the last crumb was gone. "Now Feorh, I really _must _go, or poor Araedhelm with think something happened to me."

"Very well, my Lord." Satisfied at last, Feorh picked up the tray and headed back out the door, Stolan in tow.

As soon as she was gone, Aragorn shrugged on his coat, fastened his cape, and slung the satchel over his shoulder. He opened the door, and shut it again behind himself with a soft click.

The halls of Meduseld were quiet and deserted, shadowed in the dark of early morning. Utilizing his elven training, he softened his footfalls until their noise was nearly non-existent, and so continued silently towards the stables.

As he approached, the familiar, and oddly soothing, smell of horses and fresh straw met him. He made his way past the rows of other horses to the stall where his own stallion was waiting impatiently for him, prancing in anticipation of his customary morning run. Stepping into the stall, the ranger expertly began to ready his horse.

As he went about the routine preparations, his mind continued to wander over the different problems that would, doubtless, be presented today in council. With all his personal problems already taking up so much of his mental energy, he'd been less than helpful in his advice to Thengel lately. Today, he _would_ keep his mind focused on the difficulties at hand.

With that decisive conclusion, he lifted the saddle to place it on the stallion's back. The horse had ideas of its own. It did a very dainty little side-step—right onto his foot. Even through the tough leather of his boots, the pain was intense. Aragorn cursed under his breath.

"Yrchaes, you stubborn horse!"

Of course, as soon as he'd said it, he felt his own anger dissolve, even while he continued to clench his teeth in pain. Yrcheas—"orc-bait" in Sindarin—was the name Elladan and Elrohir had given the horse when they'd first presented him to their brother as a farewell gift. He could still see the impish grin on Elladan's face as he'd handed him the reigns. "Well, _tithen-muindor_, as much as we hate to condemn this poor beast to be a meal for some pack of orcs… Yrchaes is all yours. May he serve you well...as long he lives." Obviously, Aragorn had hesitated to use the name _publicly_.

"Seron, Seron…" He shook his head, and returned to using the horse's _real _name, a far more dignified Quenya translation of "friend". "I had hoped you'd grown out of that by now. But I see that assumption was a little premature," Aragorn flinched as he tried to move his swollen toes within the boot. Seron whinnied, butting his master's chest with his nose. "Yes, yes, I know I wasn't paying attention to you…I have a lot on my mind at the moment." The horse butted him harder. Aragorn laughed and stroked his velvety muzzle. "I know, it's no excuse. Just try a gentler way of getting my attention next time? I have a feeling, I have a long day ahead of me."

Buckling the saddle on―this time with Seron's cooperation― he secured the satchel of food Feorh had given him behind it. Tentatively favoring his right foot, he swung up onto Seron's back, urging the horse out of the stable.

It was still fairly dark out, as the sun had only just begun to rise, and this morning it was mostly covered by clouds. Aragorn pulled his cape further around him as a cool, damp breath of wind pulled at his clothes. February was nearly at an end, and despite the fact that Spring was closing in, of late the weather had been cold.

He scanned the menacingly dark horizon, and nudged his horse on to a faster pace. Rain was threatening, but if he hurried he could reach Araedhelm's house, and the two of them just might reach their destination before the storm broke. If not… Well, then he could possibly be looking forward to a very wet and extremely uncomfortable afternoon.

Araedhelm's skill as a lieutenant was unbounded, but his gift-finding abilities left something to be desired. After several days of trying to decide what would be the perfectthirteenth-birthday present for his son, Rynan, he'd settled on a horse. Rynan had long outgrown the family pony, and it was time for him to have man's mount. Of course, once he'd finally settled on this course of action, the time to present this gift was getting dangerously close. That was when he'd enlisted his captain's aid. After all, one only needed to look at Captain Thorongil's own fine stallion to see he had an eye for horses.

Aragorn sighed, his breath frosting in the crisp air. He was glad to help, and he did know a good mount when he saw it, but elvish steeds were nearly all beautiful creatures. He'd never really had to pick and choose before. Besides, traditionally, Elladan and Elrohir had often chosen for him. But Araedhelm would, without a doubt, be taking him to see a herd comprised of some of Rohan's best stock―which was considerable―and he had no doubt they'd be able to find a horse that would have done any elf proud. However, Rohan's stock _was _considerable, and between his friend's recent indecision, and the amount of horses they'd have to choose from, he could see many hours already dwindling away before his eyes. But it was worth it for his friend, he admitted grudgingly.

Reining in his horse, Aragorn dismounted and approached the door. Before he could knock, the door was opened by a pretty, middle aged woman, with blond hair pulled back loosely into a knot at the base of her neck.

"Come in, come in, Captain," she welcomed him cheerfully enough, although, in the end, a hint of weariness betrayed her.

Aragorn frowned, but stepped through the door at her invitation. "Cwén, is something wrong?" With a sudden twinge of alarm, he asked cautiously, "Nothing's… wrong with Araedhelm, is there?"

Some of the concern fell from Cwén's expression at this, and she even managed a small laugh. "Oh no, nothing's wrong with my husband. It's Wynn, she came down with something in the middle of the night… I don't think it's serious, but she did have a bit of a bad fever."

"Is she all right now? Would you like me to look at her?"

At that moment, a deep voice interrupted him from one of the adjoining doorways. "There'll be no need for that, my friend, though I thank you for offering. One of the healers is in with her now, but she seems to be doing better already. Her fever broke this morning."

Aragorn looked over his friend's shoulder at the small form lying on the bed, bathed in the warm glow of the fire. "I am glad to hear that."

Araedhelm's broad, weather-beaten face contorted into relieved smile. "Yes, so are we... She's doing well enough now, but all the same, I think I'll wait and talk to the healer before I go."

Aragorn nodded. "Of course. I'll wait for you."

"No, that's all right Captain, you go ahead." He winked at Aragorn. "Get an early start looking at those horses."

Aragorn raised an eyebrow and sighed in good-natured resignation. "Yes, I suppose so…"

Araedhelm laughed. "I'll catch up with you, or else meet you at the pens."

"Very well. But you'd better hurry, there's rain threatening."

He inclined his head to Cwén, and strode back out into the cold morning, shivering slightly as his skin made contact with the air. As he remounted Seron, he shot another concerned glance at the grey sky. It was definitely foreboding. He felt another shiver race down his spine, one that had nothing to do with the chill in the air. Fear crept over him for something far more ominous than mere rain. As a warrior, he'd learned to pay attention to such warnings, and even though he felt slightly ridiculous holding such irrational suspicions, he would have to keep a sharp eye out for any trouble.

Seron knew his way through Edoras well, and Aragorn hardly had need to use the reins at all, as they wound down the path past straw-roofed houses and stirring villagers. He paused long enough to nod to the watchmen at the gate, who knew him by sight, and were accustomed to his rather unusual early-morning wanderings. They smiled, nodding back as they opened the gates and allowed him to pass through.

Aragorn gazed out across the waving sea of grass that surrounded him. As always, its endless beauty was breath-taking, and as the final backdrop, the peaks of Ered Nimrais loomed, ever-present in the distance. With the wind gently blowing at his face, a fine mount beneath him, and the road stretching on invitingly before him, Aragorn had a sudden mad urge to kick his horse in the flanks and go galloping towards those mountains at full speed. His more rational side quickly ended that futile train of thought―if, indeed, thought could be accused of having anything to do with the direction his mind was leading him.

Apparently, he wasn't _quite _as in control of himself yet as he might have thought. It would never do if word got around that Captain Thorongil was running wildly around the countryside. Well, perhaps he couldn't just go dashing wildly away to _anywhere, _or _nowhere_,but there was nothing keeping him from riding as hard as he liked. He _did _have a destination, after all. Besides, he rationalized, Seron needed the exercise.

Seron was only too pleased to oblige his master. A light tap of his heels was all the horse needed, and Aragorn let him have his head. With a whinny of pleasure, Seron shot forward down the beaten trail, hooves thundering. Aragorn closed his eyes, feeling the wind rush around him, blowing against his face. He could almost taste the fresh, wet scent of the approaching rain.

He continued in this state for some time, feeling wonderfully weightless, as if a great many burdens had been lifted from his shoulders. The only sounds were those of steadily pounding hooves, and the whistling wind. Nothing but him, the horse beneath him, and rugged nature around him, existed. Seron effortlessly maneuvered the trail, reveling in the exhilarating feeling of freedom just as much as his rider. The two of them rode as if they'd never ridden so before, and would never have the chance to do so freely again. Of course, it had only been a couple of days ago that they'd ridden like this, without restraint, and it would probably only be another day before they'd do it again; but the experience, for both horse and rider, was an ever-present source of pure joy, simple as it was.

Aragorn relaxed against his horse, leaning forward and until he lay parallel with Seron's neck, the horse's dark mane brushing his cheek. He could feel the rhythmical movement of the creature's powerful legs beneath him, carrying him past the seas of grass in a blur of gold.

Lulled by the flowing pace of his horse, he hardly noticed when soft patters of rain began to fall. The size of the raindrops increased subtly, but increase they did, until he could hardly ignore them. Sitting straight in the saddle once more, he gave a small amount of pressure to the reins, slowing Seron a fraction. He pulled his hood forward, peering into the intensifying rain.

Suddenly, he felt a flicker of danger. It was elusive, almost too vague a feeling to recognize, but Seron reacted as well, almost immediately, slowing his pace until they were nearly at a standstill. The horse's reaction was too much to ignore. Not quite sure what he was looking for, Aragorn scanned their surroundings with new attention, taking in every detail, searching for anything out of the ordinary.

Up ahead, he spotted two larger boulders that marked their next turn to the left. They were almost upon the intersection, and Aragorn gently urged Seron to take the turn. The horse responded nervously, side stepping, and shying away from the command. Aragorn frowned, leaning forward to stroke his neck soothingly. His frown deepened when the horse didn't calm, but whinnied uneasily.

"Shh, easy… _Sedho, mellon-nín_…" (Be still, my friend)

A steady flow of Sindarin did make a difference, but the creature was still tense and alert with fear. However, he obeyed the next time the command came, turning with obvious dislike toward the gently sloping path.

The path before them grew less distinct, as they swerved off the main road and began winding upwards. As the ground became more sloping, it also grew rockier. More boulders were strewn along the path, varying in size from hardly more than a pebble, to nearly as tall as a man.

Aragorn took Seron's warning, keeping one hand covertly on the hilt of his sword as he kept an eye on the unfolding path. He had to admit, the area presented a perfect layout for highwaymen or thieves―at least, in comparison to most of the terrain Rohan had to offer. Well, if any of these boulders _were _hiding common thieves, they would be disappointed in their prey. Even if they did catch him off guard―which they wouldn't―and somehow managed to disarm him, they wouldn't find anything of great worth. Seron and his sword were the only valuables he had with him right now.

At any rate, it was no use thinking about it. Either there _was _trouble brewing, or there _wasn't_. But it was his sole responsibility to spot the trouble before it bashed him over the head. It had happened to Estel dozens, if not hundreds, of times, and it could happen just as easily to Captain Thorongil as it had to that impetuous young man, what seemed like so many years ago. Only now, the consequences had the potential to be far more dire. As a Captain of Rohan, he had that much more to hide, many more secrets of importance on a larger scale, and not a little value in and of himself. However much he might like to deny it, he couldn't afford to court danger. If not for his own sake, then he owed it to the king he'd vowed his allegiance to, and to those he'd promised to protect.

The same feeling of danger flickered through him again, stronger, more intense this time. In a flood, he realized that, if there was an ambush, the last thing he wanted to be was a slow target for the attacking party. The appointed meeting place wasn't far away, if he judged correctly, and there would be a man waiting there to show him the herd. If he could only get there… Seron was only holding back out of loyalty to his master, and as soon as the command came he shot straight forward.

But the movement came a second too late.

Searing pain lanced through his side, and he heard his own surprised cry of pain. He fought the encroaching darkness that threatened to take his vision, but felt control of his body slipping away. Distantly, he felt his body sliding forward, down… Then fresh pain flared through him as Seron pulled forward in fright, forcefully pulling the blade from his rider's side. Aragorn was vaguely alerted to the presence of other men by the sound of shouting.

"Quickly! Grab him―don't let him get away!" came a gruff voice somewhere behind him.

There was the running of heavy, booted feet, and then hands grasping at his clothes and cloak, pulling him from the saddle. One of the probing hands, in its quest for a handhold, clutched roughly at his bleeding side, and consciousness came rushing back in a pain-induced surge of adrenalin. His eyes flew open, his hand reaching automatically for his sword.

But several of the men that surrounded him already had his cape firmly in their hold. As soon as they felt him stir, they were quick to pull him off of Seron's back. His back hit the ground hard, and his head cracked against the side of a boulder. Something wet trickled down the back of his neck. Through the hazy buzzing in his head he heard the tread of several men closing around him. Merely holding onto consciousness seemed quite an achievement, but attempting to actually comprehend his surroundings felt just a little too ambitious. However, his training as a soldier told him to listen, prepare himself, reach for his sword again, to make the most of his situation, however bleak.

He fought for consciousness, forcing the buzzing to recede enough for him to hear what the voices that surrounded him were saying. He was rewarded, more or less, as his mind finally began to follow one guttural voice to his left.

"Is he…dead?"

"I don't know. His head hit the rock pretty hard…He _looks_ dead."

Another voice, the first one he'd heard, spoke from a little further away. "No. Somehow I doubt that. If tales are true, Captain Thorongil is not so easily gotten rid of. He's probably just unconscious."

The man's voice was more sophisticated than Aragorn would have expected for that of a mere highwayman.

The voice continued with expert promptness, "Take his sword first, then finish him off. This is one job we don't want coming back to haunt us, of that much I'm certain."

As hands reached down to disarm him, Aragorn's fingers shot swiftly to his sword hilt. Sliding out his sword in one quick movement, he swung it in an arch towards his unprepared adversaries, who jumped back only just in time to avoid being sliced in half. Aragorn had scarce time to gain his feet, before the men had drawn their own swords, springing upon him with determined movements. Aragorn, however, was just as determined, and his obvious experience made him an imposing opponent.

Not wasting precious seconds in wishing for his lieutenant, he pressed his back against the boulder and prepared himself for the onslaught. The men formed a half-circle around him, pausing as if to measure him, then the boldest of the three swung his sword at shoulder height. Wincing at the strain it put on his side, Aragorn ducked without hesitation, keeping his left hand pressed close to his side in an attempt to allay the pain. He came back up just in time to block two more swords.

He hardly saw the men who held the weapons anymore, focusing solely on the flashing blades that darted back and forth, slashing mercilessly at him. His opponents were skilled, far more skilled than he had expected, and their intent was not to wound, or to disable, but to kill. These were no mere thieves, they were trained well. They weren't out to rob him, they were here for his blood. The cold professionalism in the eyes of his opponents defeated his last hope. Mercy would not be appreciated by these men, and Aragorn couldn't afford to give them any. He had to firmly rid himself of compassion for these men, and aim to kill, or _be _killed.

He swept aside another barrage of blades. Steeling himself, he lunged and heard the sickening sound of metal entering flesh. He didn't have time to regret the waste of life. The exposed position he'd been forced to take for the lunge turned even more awkward as his foot slipped in the mud, stretching his leg muscles painfully. Recovering as quickly as he could, he brought up his sword in time to block a sword stroke coming directly for his face. However, before he could recover his footing and pull himself into a fully upright position, one of the men took the opportunity to slam his sword hilt into the small of his back. Aragorn groaned and stumbled slightly, but refused to fall.

He spun just as the man prepared to follow up the stunning blow with the edge of his sword. He blocked, and spun to parry again. The momentum of his arch continued, catching a third man off guard. Slashed deeply across the chest, the man toppled forward into the mud, surprise written in his glassy eyes. Again, Aragorn pushed himself past the initial regret he always felt at taking human life, and forced himself to concentrate on his remaining enemies.

He'd finally managed to regain his position, the reassuring solidness of the boulder pressing at his back. Four men now remained―four dirty, enraged, waterlogged men. They glared at him, but seemed content to remain at a safe distance for the moment being, panting heavily. That suited Aragorn just fine. Each of his own ragged breaths tore at his flaming side.

_Amazing. You really have outdone yourself this time Thorongil, _a sarcastic inner voice remarked wryly.

Facing four angry, well-trained swordsmen, he had to agree with that sentiment. What had gone wrong? Nothing. He'd merely left the safety of his room. Always a mistake, as he was successfully proving again. How in Arda was he going to explain to Thengel how he'd already managed to get into trouble, this early in the day? If he somehow, miraculously, escaped in the first place, that was.

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**TBC...**

Well, this is really exciting for me, getting back to posting. I'd love to hear what you all think of it:-)


	2. A Shadow and a Thought

**A/N: **Thank you SO much for all the wonderful feedback, everyone! I know I shouldn't depend as much as I do on reviews to energize me—but they do, and I really, really appreciate it! This early update is proof of both that fact, and of Ainu Laire's skills of coercion -g- In all honesty, I was already considering updating early, but her enthusiasm when I IM-ed with her last night made an excellent excuse ;-)

Hope you enjoy it!

**See first chapter for disclaimer, thanks, and notes.**

**

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****Chapter 2: A Shadow and a Thought**

Araedhelm watched the rain somberly, as it poured in sheets past the open door, sending a misty draft through the small hallway. It seemed his captain's fears were correct. The rain was here, and now it was falling in earnest, pounding the dirt roads until they were nothing but sinking, slippery mud.

Softly closing the door between them and the room where Wynn lay, now sleeping peacefully, Cwén came to stand next to him. "Are you sure you want to go out in _that_?"

He chuckled ruefully. "Well, I just sent my Captain out in _that_, my dear. I can't abandon him now, can I?"

Cwén shook her head, blue eyes twinkling. "Alright. Go, be the loyal lieutenant. But come back, with the Captain, before you both catch your deaths out there in this infernal rain." A gust of wind carried some of the rain through the doorway. She tucked back a strand of hair behind her ear. "Now, get out there and close that door before you drown us all."

"Well, if you're so anxious to get rid of me, I'll be off." He planted a quick kiss on her lips.

"Not so fast." Cwén grabbed his cape from one of the hooks that lined the wall, draping it over his shoulders and pinning it securely in front. "Be careful, and don't go too fast on the roads."

He squeezed her arm reassuringly and, pulling up his hood, ducked out into the rain. He turned the corner just as his son emerged from the small stable, leading his horse. Rynan handed over the reins to his father, eyeing the well-built warhorse wistfully as his father mounted.

"I'll be back soon." Araedhelm smiled at the way Rynan lingered, hands resting on the horse's neck, ignoring the rain that was running down his face. "Get inside to your mother before she starts worrying about you."

Rynan nodded silently, flashing his father a brief smile, before finally turning back to the house.

Araedhelm took the shortest route he could think of, winding as sharply as he dared through the slippery roads. When he reached the gates, he paused to question the watchmen. Who knew, perhaps there was hope after all: Thorongil _could _have returned by now, if he hadn't gotten too far before the rain started.

"Something wrong, Sir?" one of the watchmen called to him above the rain.

"I'm looking for Captain Thorongil—has he come back yet?"

The soldier shook his head. "No, he came through a little while back, but we haven't seen him since." There was an edge of amusement in the man's voice when he continued. "I think he took off at a good pace right away. Could've ridden a ways before the storm broke."

Araedhelm sighed. It seemed there would be no such luck for him today. He should have known better. Nothing could be that simple. All he said aloud was, "Yes, I know the direction he was headed." Oh yes, he knew the direction Captain Thorongil was heading—at his request. Under his breath, he added a muttered, "He's going to kill me for this…"

The two guards, valiantly smothering smiles, opened the gates and saluted with exaggerated solemnity and formality, as if showing their final respects to a brave soldier departing on a suicide mission. He heard one of them say quietly: "To death and glory, my Lord."

"Thank you." The sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable. He urged his stallion through the gates. "Do break it gently to my wife, if I should fail to return..."

The men chuckled, closing the gates behind him.

Pulling his cape about him more securely, he started down the road at as fast a pace as the roads permitted, and perhaps a bit faster. Loyally, his horse put all his effort into the task, and soon they were careening at an increasingly dangerous pace, mud spraying from the horse's flying hooves. Far be it from him to discourage the beast. The faster he found Thorongil, the better.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of wading through the dense rain, Araedhelm was able to pick out the boulders that marked the turn. Sighing a breath of relief, he swerved down the path. His eyes roved across the rocky terrain ahead for any signs of his Captain. Surely he couldn't have come much further than this in the amount of time he'd had? When the rain started, he must have turned back. He was actually surprised he hadn't found him much more quickly than this.

The path he was on now was much more obscure and less well-traveled than the main path, and the rain was doing nothing to help. In some places, it had been partly obliterated, the edges of the road undefined and hard to see through the downpour, and, reluctantly, he was forced to slow his pace.

There was something menacing in the air. Araedhelm was a seasoned soldier, and accustomed to many of the uglier things in life. He been through more battles than he could remember, and lost count of how many injuries he'd sustained in that time. All the same, he found himself suddenly acting as frightened as a green soldier out on his first campaign, jumping at everything—as well as nothing. What? Did he think there was some hoodlum hiding out somewhere along the road? Perhaps comfortably situated in a puddle, using mud for camouflage?

Disregarding the embarrassment that came with such thoughts, he paid attention to the sudden uneasiness that was possessing him. Where Thorongil was concerned, he couldn't afford to ignore such obvious warnings. His senses were well trained, and if they were telling him something was wrong, then the only conclusion he could come to was that something _was _wrong here. He had to assume the worst for now, and he would continue to so until his Captain was safe within Edoras, not a moment before. His first duty lay in protecting his Captain, not his pride.

And so he continued, plowing his way through the muck that now defined the road, unashamedly tensing every time he passed a boulder that looked tall enough to hide a man. The first of his senses to be rewarded for his vigilance was his hearing. At first, the sound was so distant he was sure it was nothing but his overactive imagination. However, as he moved forward a few more paces, he distinctly heard the sound of metal striking metal.

Paying no attention to the dangerous condition of the road, he spurred his horse onward. His eyes grew wide as he turned a bend in the road and the source of the sound came into full view. Four men, in a semi-circle, were advancing upon one lone figure, backed against a boulder. Even through the grey sheets of rain, he recognized the tall, lone figure as his captain.

Faster than his own thoughts could form—and obviously faster than the men could comprehend his presence—he charged, sword in hand. He struck the first man down just as the semi-circle was beginning to turn in response to the sound of hoof-beats. As the man crumpled, Thorongil took advantage of the sudden disruption to run his sword through a second, and knock the sword from yet another. The two remaining men—one now weaponless—took a couple of slow steps backwards.

"Surrender now, and your lives will be spared!" Thorongil shouted above the wind to the two retreating men.

The two men took another wary step backwards, eyeing their conquerors with looks of defeat, but no panic or fear. They said nothing, remaining stoically silent. Aragorn and Araedhelm both frowned. There was a bit _too _much resignation in those eyes, and instead of fear, there was even a certain amount of undefeated pride. Their faces were not the faces of men preparing themselves to _surrender_… Too late did they recognize the expressions on the men's faces. Their faces did not display resignation to capture, but resignation to _death_.

Aragorn lunged for one of them, but not soon enough. In one accord, the two men drew vials from deep within their tunics, pulled out the corks, and lifted them to their lips. Aragorn reached one of them and just caught his wrist, but the vial was already at his mouth, and he jerked away, tilting his head back and draining the vial before Aragorn could interfere further. The second man quickly followed suit, draining the last drop before turning to face them with an eerie, but triumphant smile. He clenched the vial tightly in his fist, until it shattered. Blood ran between his fingers, mingling with the rain.

"We will die with honor," he whispered hoarsely, his voice hardly discernable through the sound of rain.

Then, with almost comical timing, both men's eyes rolled back in their heads at the same time, and they went limp.

Araedhelm dismounted and rushed to Aragorn, who was already kneeling next to one of the men, turning him over on his back. They gazed at the pale face, a mask of stoicism in the face of death. Healer's instincts automatically had Aragorn reaching for the man's neck, feeling for even the faintest pulse. There was none. Sighing, he looked up at his lieutenant, managing a strained smile.

"What took you so long? You left me waiting so long, these…gentlemen took it upon themselves to entertain me."

Slightly shaken at how close he might have been to losing his Captain, Araedhelm had more difficulty making light of the situation. "I'm sorry Captain, I—"

Aragorn interrupted him. "No, my friend, this mess isn't your fault, so don't even _think_ about blaming yourself for it."

At that, a smile did creep into Araedhelm's expression. "Too late for _that_, I'm afraid." Just as quickly as his smile came, it vanished when he saw Thorongil waver as he tried to gain his feet. "Captain?"

Aragorn held up a hand. "I'm alright…"

For the first time, Araedhelm noticed the blood that was running down the side of his friend's face. His eyes traveled downwards, coming to rest on his side, where the fabric was torn…and bloody. Refusing to accept his Captain's remonstrances, he rushed to his side.

"Araedhelm, really, I'm _fine_," Aragorn said more forcefully, taking a step towards Seron. For just a moment, he almost believed himself. Then the ache in his side turned into a full-blown stab of pain.

Araedhelm was already rushing to his side, supporting him as his legs began to give way. He looped Aragorn's arm around his neck. "Fine" appeared to be a relative word.

"It's…not that bad," Aragorn ground out, just as stubbornly determined to prove he was "fine", as Araedhelm was to prove the opposite.

"It looks bad _enough_. We must get back to Edoras."

Aragorn agreed reluctantly. However much he hated to admit it, it would be foolish to ignore his wound. "Perhaps…" He took a step forward, leaning heavily on Araedhelm for support. Each moment, a little more of the adrenaline that had enabled him to fight wore off, now he felt its last powerful effects ebbing away. It left him weak and heavy. Gravity's pull seemed to increase, until his legs felt like lead.

"Lean on me."

Araedhelm's deep voice, like a beacon, broke through the mists that were beginning to envelop his mind. Unfortunately, its effect wasn't long-lasting, and soon darkness began to creep along the edges of his vision.

_Not now…_

But wishing the blackness away had never worked before, and, although he still tried, wishing was getting him nowhere with his present problem, either. Although he could still sense the conscious world somewhere, faintly continuing around him, his vision, and his control over his body, deserted him. Distantly he could feel large, strong, familiar arms supporting him, and he automatically felt a rush of trust and security. Knowing he was in safe hands, he quit fighting against the haziness that was overtaking him.

Araedhelm, miserably in tune with the reality of their bleak surroundings, swiftly moved to support all Aragorn's weight as he collapsed against him. Alarmed, he quickly searched for a pulse. It was still there, beating reassuringly against his fingertips. He was about to opt for the easiest mode of transporting his captain, and promptly heft him over a shoulder, when he remembered the place the wound was situated. It might be the simplest way for himto carry another, full-grown man, but such an awkward angle would do nothing but further damage Aragorn's wounded side.

There was nothing for it. Still supporting Aragorn's upper half with one arm, he stooped to lift him up bodily, looping his arms under his knees. A grunt of effort escaped him, as he tried to straighten back up with his burden in his arms.

"This is getting more difficult every time, my friend…I'm getting too old for this," he panted, sloshing through the mud towards the horses.

The last time he'd done this had been three or four years ago, when Aragorn had been somewhat younger—and so had _he_. Perhaps the second was the more important factor of the two, he thought wryly, shaking some of the rain out of his eyes. Already, his arms were aching, beginning to go numb from the strain.

He approached his own horse, then hesitated as he spotted Seron, obediently waiting for his master a little ways off. Seron was a beautiful, well-proportioned creature, large even in comparison to his own tall war-horse, and no doubt better qualified to bear the weight of two men. For there was little question now, in Araedhelm's mind, that whichever horse he chose was going to have to carry both of them. Aragorn wasn't about to come back to consciousness any time soon.

Seron was watching him with big, intelligent eyes, and he made up his mind. Somehow, that horse had always daunted him. Besides, he decided, now was not the time for him to be trying to control a strange mount. Thankfully, his own stallion was cooperative enough, holding still while he maneuvered Aragorn up onto his back. He swung up behind Aragorn, pulling him against his chest more securely, and reaching around him for the reins. Before he could even give a thought to how he was going to bring the other horse, he heard Seron move, dutifully coming to stand behind him. He wasn't about to leave his master.

Araedhelm spared one glance over his shoulder for the men who lay dead in the middle of the road. He didn't feel pity for them, not after what they'd attempted to do, but it felt wrong, nonetheless, to leave them like this. The dead deserved to be buried.

Aragorn moved in his hold, moaning softly. It brought Araedhelm back to his purpose. The King would hear in detail of this attack, but he couldn't concern himself with these men now. He clucked to his horse, and they headed back down the road towards Edoras.

Huddled atop the wall, the watchmen heard the galloping of horses and, recognizing Araedhelm, opened the gates. Anxiously, the two men also recognized the tall figure, slumped in the saddle in front of Araedhelm, but restrained their curiosity. Obviously, whatever had happened, Thorongil needed immediate attention.

Fortunately, the rain had discouraged any but the most daring from venturing out of doors, and despite the fact that it was now approaching mid-morning the streets were still mostly vacant. Araedhelm didn't slow his pace, winding his way through the deserted paths, taking the most direct route to Meduseld. As he thundered into the courtyard, Aragorn moaned and shifted slightly in front of him. He cursed under his breath.

From the look of him, he could have sworn the Captain would have remained unconscious for a long while. Of course, you could never tell exactly how long it would be before a man regained consciousness, but he should have assumed Thorongil would come around at least an hour before anyone guessed. Not only was he a tough warrior physically, rebounding from injuries and sicknesses at a surprising rate, but he often seemed to be bent on doing just the opposite of what everyone expected of him. Usually, his talent for doing things unconventionally—purposefully, or unintentionally—earned him respect and admiration, since he nearly always came out on top.

Unfortunately, if he were to regain consciousness right now, he would only awaken to find himself in the embarrassing situation of needing to be carried up the stairs into Meduseld. Thorongil wasn't, by nature, a proud man, but every soldier had his limits. No Rohirrim alive would cherish the thought of being carried in such a helpless state into The Golden Hall. If such a procedure _were _to take place, unconsciousness was highly preferable.

Sliding from the saddle, he began to call for a healer at the top of his lungs, uncaring of the spectacle he might be making of himself. Then, careful not to jar Aragorn's wounds further, he gently lifted his captain down into his arms. He looked at the pale face that rested on his arm, searching for any signs of awareness. Thorongil's eyelids twitched slightly as a raindrop touched his face, but he didn't appear to be rousing any further. For that, Araedhelm was grateful.

**---o--oOo--o---**

Thengel paced the halls restlessly, hands clasped behind his back. He paused long enough to pull his robe more tightly around him, and then continued. Meduseld was dark and cold this morning, and the King felt heavier than he had for a long time.

Peace prevailed in Rohan. For the moment, even the Dunlendings seemed content, or at least non-aggressive. Well, there was one, small rumor concerning the Wildmen. However, the source of that complaint was unreliable and imaginative, to say the least. He would get around to that problem sooner or later, but for now, things were well in Edoras. Council meetings, although tedious as ever, generally were held only because of trivial problems.

Then why this sudden worry? He tried to pinpoint the cause of his uneasiness, but found it impossible. As each second passed, he became more convinced that the problem, whatever it was, wasn't simply one problem to be dealt with and then cast aside. Some evil was coming to Rohan, and the most terrifying thing was, it was infecting the land from inside. Whispers of spies and conspiracies were all part of court intrigue, but lately those whispers seemed to hold the ring of truth. He couldn't ignore that anymore. It wasn't so much a matter of _what _the problem was, as _who _the problem was.

_Someone close…someone_ very _close…_

His advisor's warning came back to him involuntarily. He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think about any of the people he considered "close" as being suspect of treason. It was impossible, he'd gone over the lists again and again, but it still made no sense. Even if, by some stretch of the imagination, he was able to overlook the fact that none of them seemed capable of that level of crafty scheming and acting, he always came down the same impasse in the end: they were his friends.

_Clearly, _one_ of them isn't, my Lord._

Again, the words of his advisor came back to admonish him, even in the absence of the Silfren himself. He sighed. This train of thought made him want to rip his hair out in frustration. He may as well suspect his wife as most of the men that fell under the category of suspects. Their histories went back so far together… Why would one of them suddenly decide upon treachery? Or had it been their intent for all these years? The thought of such long-term plans, and the callous man that would have had to have made them, was almost too frightening to consider.

He wished he could afford to wait. Perhaps, in time, this traitor would slip, and make a mistake that would uncover him. Perhaps he would never have to accuse any of his friends. Perhaps…it would be too late by then. Perhaps the traitor was far cleverer than he could imagine. And, perhaps, if he did nothing at all, Rohan would fall into the hands of the enemy. Whoever that was.

He would hate to suspect any of his true friends, but he couldn't afford _not _to suspect all of them. It was horrible task, sorting through all the familiar faces, treating them like so many criminals. If it hadn't been for Silfren, he'd probably have given up long ago, for he longed to let the whole matter drop. But he couldn't. His duty as King, to protect Rohan, lay before him, and he would do it without flinching.

_But, after all is said and done, perhaps not without regrets… _his own thoughts whispered to him.

The lists of names and faces continued to run through his mind, and the King continued to pace. The physical exertion, however, did nothing to alleviate his tormented thoughts. After several more minutes, he had to admit that, for the present, the task was rapidly becoming fruitless. His emotions were too close to the subject, and his thoughts only became more confused the more he thought about it.

"Healers! Quickly!"

A booming, authoritative voice broke trough the monotonous sound of the pouring rain. Thengel started out of his reverie, quickening his steps, and turning towards the front of Meduseld.

"Quickly—it's Captain Thorongil!"

At mention of Thorongil, alarm increased his speed. He reached the door just behind two of the palace guards, who were rushing to help Araedhelm with the wounded captain, as he struggled under the other man's weight.

Araedhelm shook his head at the guards, breathing heavily as he reached the top of the stairs, but unfaltering in his movements. "No, I can carry him... Clear the way…Get healers."

The guards obeyed, one of them running off for the healers, while the other strode on ahead. After that, Araedhelm didn't pause, not even at sight of the King, moving forwards at a surprisingly fast rate. Thengel fell into step behind him, momentarily too stunned and worried to ask questions.

They arrived at Thorongil's room just as Neylor, the head healer, arrived. The white-haired man took charge right away. Having Araedhelm hold him upright for a moment, he unclasped the dripping cape from around Aragorn's shoulders, and threw it over the back of a chair. He leaned over Aragorn as soon as Araedhelm had deposited him on the bed, taking one assessing look at his patient's ripped, blood-soaked clothes, before thrusting his hand out.

"Knife," he commanded brusquely.

Araedhelm frowned at the abrupt, and rather ominous-sounding request. He regarded the healer with suspicion.

Neylor sighed impatiently. "No, Lieutenant, I don't propose to start out by slicing him open, I merely intend to get a better look at the wound," he said the words quickly, in one breath, but in the tone of an adult trying to explain something to a very young child.

Feeling suddenly foolish at his unmerited hostilities, Araedhelm quickly unsheathed his dagger and handed it over. Neylor snatched it up without apology, and began cutting away Aragorn's tunic with deft fingers. He pursed his lips when the angry-looking and still-bleeding wound was revealed at last, but he never paused in his ministrations.

Feorh came hurrying into the room, and Naylor looked up critically at the intruder into "his" domain. When he saw who it was, he said in an approving, but clipped voice, "Ah, Feorh. Good." Before he'd finished speaking, his eyes shot back to the bed.

Feorh seemed to know her part well, rushing around the room at an almost alarming rate, as she stoked the fire, and began to heat some water. Every now and then, even as her hands flew about the various sick-room tasks, her eyes strayed anxiously to the still form on the bed. Word would soon be spread that Captain Thorongil had been wounded, but it would not be spread with pleasure by its bearer.

Araedhelm and Thengel stood silently side by side, watching with kindred worry but feeling unusually helpless and useless in the face of such efficiency. Now that his captain was in the hands of a healer, Araedhelm felt restless without a physical outlet to express his concern through.

As a King, helplessness wasn't a foreign feeling to Thengel. He'd witnessed many such scenes before, and had had to stand stoically by while men rode to war for Rohan, or died to protect him. However, just because he was _used _to it, didn't mean he enjoyed it now any more than he had then. Although he was ruler of Rohan, with thousands of men at his command, he was next to useless in the sick-room. He might have recognized the irony of his position, had he been in less troubled circumstances.

Neylor continued to hover over Aragorn, alternately grunting in satisfaction, and frowning in consideration. In other words: driving all onlookers completely insane with questions. Far be it from him to break the age-honored tradition of healers, and actually volunteer information. He reached for another clean bandage, without so much as sparing any of them a look or word of reassurance.

Thengel held himself back with admirable self-control. Neylor was one of the few healers he trusted enough to place in charge of both himself, and his family. He could be ornery, pig-headed, domineering, and at times downright defiant to any and all authority, including the King's. The sick-room was had long ago been established as _his _territory, and no other's. Anyone caught interfering was "glared" out of the room. But the elderly healer loved and cared for the royal family with skill born of many years of experience, and his talent was irreplaceable. Perhaps that was the reason for his brazen attitude: he knew it.

Despite all this, Thengel finally reached his limit. He stepped closer to the bed, Araedhelm mirroring his movements on the other side, even as he watched the demanding healer cautiously. Neylor was just running one gnarled hand lightly across the white bandages that wound around Aragon's torso.

"Well…" he trailed off unhelpfully.

"Yes, well _what_?" Thengel asked somewhat sharply.

Araedhelm, regaining some of his sense of purpose, demanded, "By the gods, man, will he _live_?"

Neylor didn't respond to either of them directly. He began muttering, whether for their benefit or his own, neither of them could tell at first. "He has a fever, and that wound is swollen, and still bleeding lightly… Nasty cut, that, and ragged too…" He narrowed his eyes at Araedhelm. "It's at a rather strange angle. How did he receive it?"

Araedhelm felt anger mount as his question was all but ignored. "I don't know exactly how he received it, and I don't care so much about _how_ he got it, as about whether he's going to _survive_ it. Now will you tell me in plain words, or not?"

"In a moment, Lieutenant, in a moment… Be patient, you can't rush healing." Neylor ignored his outburst, moving from his hand from Aragorn's chest to the side of his head where he'd hit it on a rock when he fell from the saddle. Dipping a cloth into a steaming bowl of water, he wrung it out and began wiping the blood away with unexpected gentleness. After checking Aragorn's eyes for dilation, he finally took pity on Araedhelm and Thengel and spoke at last. "Hmm…I think he will do well, my Lords. He appears to have a bad concussion and, as I said, the wound is severe and inflamed. But he is not a weak man, and likely will pull through alright."

Thengel let out a long breath. Thorongil would live. Perhaps his relief was a bit premature, but he couldn't bear to think of the alternative.

Even in the relatively short amount of time Thorongil had served Rohan, he'd risen in rank until he'd earned the title of First Marshall of the Mark. He now captained a full Eored—and held each man's implicit trust. This rugged warrior from the North, with his odd, almost Elven bearing, and commanding voice, had won the admiration and friendship of the men of Rohan, as well as that of its King.

Thengel watched the pale face on the pillow before him, still lightly etched with pain. Thorongil _would _recover, or Rohan would lose one of her most valued and loved warriors.

**

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****TBC…**

So, who thinks Thorongil's going to die? Thus making this _entire_ story _three_ chapters long… (Plus the epilogue—got to have the funeral.) -g-

Next chapter should be up Friday or Saturday (not tomorrow, but next week). Unless of course my excitement once again gets the best of me :-)


	3. The Eyes of a Child

**_ See chapter one for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes. _ **

**A/N: As ever, you've all been overwhelmingly wonderful with the feedback. Thank you so much! The action slows down here for a bit, Aragorn focuses on recovering, and another key character is introduced--hope you enjoy it.  
**

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**Chapter 3: The Eyes of a Child**

He peered cautiously out from behind the long table cloth.

The halls were deserted.

Just as he was preparing to dart out, he heard a door creak open, and a voice echoed down the passage. He quickly let the curtain of dark cloth fall back into place, and huddled further back into the limited recess beneath the table. The small table wasn't the most accommodating or spacious of hiding places, but it was most effective. Besides, he didn't take up very much room.

"Be sure to fetch me if he regains consciousness, or grows worse, Feorh."

He tensed at the familiar voice.

_Don't let him come this way, don't let him see me…_

He wished the footsteps to turn the other way, but they didn't. And worse, more footsteps were coming from the other direction. They were more hurried and lighter than the first, but their familiar sound made his heart pump frantically.

"Thengel! How is he?"

The voice that belonged to the second pair of footfalls was feminine and musical, but he tensed even more when he heard it.

_Please don't let them find me, don't let them see me…_

His thoughts began the new mantra with renewed fervor. Now, he willed both pairs of footsteps to move past his hiding place, but to his horror they stopped altogether—right in front of him. He could see their feet just below the hem of the tablecloth.

The voice belonging to the woman was worried. "Captain Thorongil…"

"Will be alright," the man's voice firmly finished for her. "He is badly wounded, but Neylor thinks he will recover."

There was a sharp sigh of relief from the woman. "Do you know how it happened?"

"No." The man's voice was grim. "But I intend to find out as soon as he regains consciousness."

"But Araedhelm was with him, haven't you asked him what happened?"

"Yes, I have asked him. Unfortunately, he wasn't with Thorongil when the men attacked."

"What men?"

"That, my dear, is the question many of us are asking. And I'm afraid even the Captain may not have a complete answer to offer."

"But—"

"Shh… Morwen," There was a smile evident in his voice. "I'm afraid I don't know anything more for the moment. I _will _tell you more, just as soon as I hear more myself. Right now, we must pray for Thorongil's recovery. And swiftly, I already feel sorely in need of his council…"

"Yes, of course…" the woman agreed, sighing in defeat. "But I do hate all this waiting." She sighed again. "In the meantime, dear husband, do you have any idea where your son is?"

"_My _son? He's your son too, dear _wife_, even when he's in trouble."

"You haven't answered my question."

"No, I haven't seen him yet this morning." The man's voice turned decidedly affectionate. "Come now, don't frown like that. He's probably just bothering the cooks for some pastries before breakfast. You know how he is."

"Yes, I _do _know how he is—that's what bothering me. He behaves exactly like you."

Then, to his immense relief, the footsteps continued on past him. They were gone, and he was free at last! As soon as the sound of their voices had receded, he scrambled out from beneath the table, and began inching down the hall. When he reached the door that Thengel had just exited, he turned the knob and pushed it open a sliver. Through the crack, he could just see into the room. There was a large bed, with a woman sitting in a chair next to it. He recognized Feorh, and a grin lit up his face. Her head was already beginning to nod forward. A little longer and, with any luck, she'd be asleep. Perfect.

He waited a few more minutes, watching Feorh carefully. To his annoyance, the older woman managed to stay awake for a lot longer than he'd expected, shaking herself several times just as she was beginning to nod off. But she couldn't win forever, and he doggedly continued to wait until, finally, her eyelids drooped and her breathing evened out in sleep. It was a light sleep, very light. No doubt, she would wake at the slightest noise from the bed. Well, that just meant he'd have to be extra quiet if he hoped to succeed.

Pushing the door open just wide enough for him to fit through, he slipped silently into the room. He padded quietly across the floor, his bare feet not making a sound. Finally, he reached the bed. He stood on tiptoe, trying to see the occupant of the bed, but found, to his frustration, that he wasn't tall enough to get a proper look. Still, he hadn't been discouraged from his quest by any of the other obstacles, and he wasn't about to be dissuaded now.

Pursing his lips, he looked around the room for anything to help him reach his objective. His eyes landed on a second chair, and he smiled again. Keeping one eye fixed on Feorh for any sighs that she was stirring, he grabbed the chair by its rungs and lifted. It was almost too much for him to carry, being very solidly built, but he didn't dare drag it for fear of the noise that would make. He reached the side of the bed, and set it down with a soft "thump". His eyes darted fretfully back to Feorh, but she continued to snore lightly. Sighing in relief, he clamored up to the top of the chair.

The sight that met him nearly made him gasp in fright. He quickly placed a hand over his mouth to prevent any sound, but his eyes went wide.

_Thorongil…_

His child's heart cried out at the sight of the man, who he'd come to love almost like an uncle, looking so frail and weak. There was an ugly-looking cut across the side of his head, and his face was so white… A shudder of fear raced up his spine. He'd seen wounded men before. He'd also seen dead men before. Right now, Thorongil looked like he could be either.

Suddenly, he felt a desperate need to reassure himself that the captain wasn't the latter. With tentative, trembling fingers, he reached forward to touch the chest of his hero. Somehow, he knew Thorongil lived—after all, he wouldn't have left without saying goodbye. But he needed to feel with his own fingers that that strong heart still beat.

In order to reach Thorongil, however, he was forced to stretch out toward the bed. Still holding on to the back of the chair with one hand, he extended the other as far as he could reach.

Just a little further…

It wasn't enough. He shifted his weight further forward, stretching his fingers as far as he could.

Just a little more and he could touch him… Just a little more…

The chair tilted and, with a sinking feeling, he felt himself slipping. The chair thudded noisily against the side of the bed. He saw silver eyes fly open, just as he came hurtling forwards.

"Théoden!"

Then, strong, reassuring arms wrapped themselves around him, catching him mid-fall.

**---o--oOo--o---**

Aragorn opened his eyes with a start, only to be greeted by the sight of the young prince hurtling towards him. Reflexively, he reached up and caught him, to protect both Théoden and his chest from injury.

"Théoden!" The startled exclamation was torn from him. He couldn't prevent a cry of pain, as his injures were strained, but he quickly subdued it, trying to keep his pain from the child.

A falling boy, coming straight at him, wasn't usually the first thing he'd like to wake up to, but he quickly hid his own surprise at sight of the boy's frightened blue eyes. His arms were already trembling slightly from the effort of holding Théoden away from his wounded chest, so he gently lowered him down onto the bed next to him.

Théoden looked at him with alarm. "I-I thought you were dead… I didn't mean to hurt you!" his young voice shook with anxiety.

"Shh, it's alright..."

But in a moment it _wasn't _alright. Feorh, who had begun to rouse at sound of the chair falling against the bed, jumped up as Thorongil's deep voice registered. When she saw Théoden, sitting up on the bed, her eyes went wide in consternation.

"Théoden, what are you doing in here, Prince?" she cried out, automatically reprimanding the boy, and then hastily adding his title in belated respect to his position. She reached for the now thoroughly terrified boy. "I'm sorry, Captain, I shouldn't have fallen asleep…"

Aragorn didn't even have time to reassure her that all was well, because Neylor chose that moment to burst into the room. At sight of Théoden, his lined face became reproving. "Young Prince, this is a sick-room!"

Aragorn held up a hand halting both Feorh, and Neylor. "No, it's alright, he only startled me. He's done no harm."

They both looked a little relieved, but Neylor didn't relent. "I am glad to see you're doing well, Captain, but I will be the one to determine whether any damage has been done." He looked disapprovingly at Théoden, who huddled back against Aragorn for protection.

Before any of them could say more, another voice rang out above the din. "Théoden!" The maid, who was _supposed _to watch Théoden, but usually ended up merely running around frantically searching for him, stepped towards the bed, looking apologetically from one face to the next.

At sight of the maid, Théoden curled up into an even tighter ball. He was growing decidedly tired of hearing his name spoken in that tone of voice. He looked imploringly up at Thorongil. "I didn't mean to cause any trouble…"

Aragorn smiled, and placed a hand on top of his head. "Of course not, young one."

Desperate and embarrassed, the maid took a quick step forward and grabbed Théoden's hand. "Come on, your highness…" she urged pleadingly.

Théoden looked desperately to Thorongil: the only one present who seemed to look mercifully upon his plight. He clung to the bedpost as the maid attempted to pull him towards the door. However, once again, the proceedings were interrupted.

"Whatis going on here?"

All eyes flew to the King, who stood in the doorway, frowning deeply. Morwen was just behind him. When she saw Théoden, she rushed past her husband.

"Théoden! There you are, I've been looking all over for you."

Théoden groaned and buried his head in one of the pillows. This was turning out to be one of his most miserable adventures—ever.

Neylor was fuming. He'd had quite enough of this. The room was _crowded_, and he was going to put a stop to all this noise. He didn't care if the initiator of the noise _was _royalty! His first obligation was to his patient who, by the slightly grey hue of his face, was growing increasingly weary. If he didn't put a stop to this, they'd soon have Araedhelm and half of his Eored in here as well.

"ENOUGH!" he bellowed.

Silence. Beautiful, uninterrupted _silence_.

Even the maid stopped her obsequious apologies. All six pairs of eyes turned to him. He took a deep, satisfied breath of air. "That's better. This room is a _sick _room, and as such it is supposed to be _peaceful_, not crowded with babbling idiots." First things first. He turned his merciless gaze upon the poor maid, pointing to the door. "Out."

Wringing her hands, the maid looked from Morwen to the healer. "But the prince…"

Morwen nodded. "Do as he says. It's alright, I'll look after Théoden for now."

With that, the maid fairly ran out of the room, desperate to escape out from under the stern healer's glare.

Neylor's next unfortunate victim was Feorh. "As for _you _woman, sit down, and for heaven's sake stop apologizing." His voice regained its quiet severity. "We all know you're sorry for falling asleep—as you should be. Standing there spewing your endless babble isn't going to make us any more receptive, and it certainly isn't going to help the Captain regain his health."

A very sober-looking Feorh took her seat.

Neylor wasn't anywhere near finished. He turned just as harsh a countenance on the royal family.

Thengel saw the lecture coming, and held up both hands placating. "Save your breath, Neylor. We'll leave peacefully, without a fight." Neylor scowled unappreciatively at his attempt at humor, but he ignored the healer and turned to Aragorn. "I am glad to see you awake, Captain. We must speak, later—"

Neylor interrupted disapprovingly, "_Much _later, my Lord. He needs rest now, not half the court in his bedroom carrying out an inquisition."

Thengel nodded in assent. "With that, I do agree. Focus on recovering, Captain. Questions can wait until later."

Aragorn nodded his thanks.

Morwen held out her hand to Théoden. "Come on, Théoden. I think you've bothered Captain Thorongil enough for one day."

At this, Aragorn spoke up for the first time. "Please, Lady Morwen, if you can spare him, I would enjoy his company."

As he'd expected, Neylor didn't think very highly of the suggestion. "Captain! This is not a nursery…"

Aragorn smiled. "No, but then someone as well-behaved as Théoden hardly belongs in a nursery anymore, don't you agree?"

Morwen tried to hide a grin at Théoden's proud glance. "Come now, Neylor, if it is the Captain's wish…"

Neylor's scowl deepened, but he relented with unexpected good-nature and grace. "Very well. If the patient wishes it." He looked warningly at Théoden. "But I don't want to hear any noise coming from this room."

Théoden nodded somberly.

Morwen stepped quickly over to the bed and tucked a strand of his blond hair back behind his ear. "Don't stay _too_ long. Thorongil does need to rest." She planted a light kiss on the top of his head, and followed Thengel out of the room.

Neylor surveyed the now considerably less crowded room with satisfaction, then his gaze turned scrutinizingly on Aragorn. Apart from looking pale, weak, and slightly feverish, he appeared to be doing quite well, he thought sarcastically. Thorongil could be a nightmare patient at times. Where in Arda had he gotten his stubborn streak from? He certainly aggravated healers with a talent that hinted of years of practice. Although he didn't hold much hope he would actually _obey_ the order, he gave it anyways, "Rest. I'll be back to make sure you do just that, so don't think you can get away with anything."

Aragorn relaxed onto his pillow, as Neylor stalked out of the room. "You can go now, too, Feorh." He tilted his head to look at the maid, and quirked an eyebrow. "I don't think you do quite so well at the getting up early in the morning as you thought."

"Apparently not." Feorh shook her head ruefully. "But I don't think I should leave. Neylor would have my hide."

"I'll take the responsibility. I don't think he'd have the heart to skin one of his own patients… At least not until they've recovered. Go ahead, take some rest. I'm not going to be going anywhere."

"That, my Lord, is supposed to by _my _line." She rose stiffly from her chair, and moved slowly to the door. "Very well, but I'll be back soon to make sure _you _get your rest."

Théoden slid from the bed, and climbed nimbly up to sit on the chair that Feorh had just vacated. "Neylor never lets me stay when people are hurt," he said, in an insulted tone of voice.

Aragorn murmured absentmindedly, "Some things were never meant for the eyes of children…" He immediately regretted his words.

"I'm not a child," Théoden exclaimed indignantly.

Aragorn smiled gently at him, and worked quickly to cover his mistake, "No, of course not." He examined the round, boyish face before him, with its unexpectedly solemn blue eyes. It seemed unnatural, sometimes, how seriously he always took things. "How old are you now, Théoden?"

"I'm eight. Or…at least, I will be soon. Father says he's going to take me with him on one of his trips soon, as a birthday present."

"Well then, you really are growing up."

Théoden's face glowed at receiving his hero's praise. "How old are _you_?" he asked, with the guileless innocence that only children possess.

Taken aback by the question, Aragorn was hard put not to show his surprise. He hesitated, considering his options. His Númenorian blood gave him long life, and although he might _look _no more than in his late twenties… No, he decided, it would not do to have his true age whispered and wondered about all around court for the next year. He looked back to Théoden, who was regarding him expectantly.

"Théoden…I'm…" he began.

Théoden's eyes went a little wider when he didn't finish the sentence, but only trailed off. "You're so old you've forgotten how old you are?"

Aragorn chuckled. "No, I'm not quite _that_ old yet."

_Wouldn't Elladan and Elrohir enjoy hearing _this _conversation…_he thought, with an inward smirk.

Théoden frowned. "Then how old _are_ you?"

"I'm…old enough." In a shameless attempt to divert Théoden's attention away from the embarrassing line of questioning, he threw out a new question before Théoden could enforce his own. "When is your birthday?"

Théoden was easily distracted by the new subject, effortlessly prattling on for some time, eager to talk about anything—especially his upcoming birthday. To Thorongil's mortification, however, the topic did eventually run dry, and Théoden's curiosity turned back to him. He seemed to be bound and determined to get _something_ out of him concerning his own birthday. Of course, it had never occurred to him that anyone would be anything but delighted to chatter on about how old they were, and what they hoped to get for their birthday.

"When is _your _birthday, Thorongil?"

Without thinking, Aragorn automatically replied, "The first day of March."

Théoden paused thoughtfully, for moment, then he turned excitedly to him. "But that's only a week away!"

Aragorn frowned. "Well yes, it is." Funny, he'd almost forgotten that…

Like a tidal-wave, memories of home came flooding back. If he were at home, the twins would _never _have let him forget that it was nearing his birthday. Actually, they'd probably have begun their "mysterious plotting" weeks ago. In his mind's eye he could see them, huddled together, whispering, and doing their best to drive him crazy with suspense. This time of year, he was usually too busy wondering what they were going to do to him as a "surprise" to think about much else. However misguided their ideas of "fun" might be at times, he missed the occasionally childish traditions Elladan and Elrohir had kept alive, even through adulthood. And Elrond would be ordering the Hall of Fire prepared for the celebration…

"Thorongil," Théoden's impatient voice interrupted his thoughts loudly. "What are you getting?"

Aragorn shook himself. "Getting?"

"You know, for your birthday."

"Well…I don't believe I'm getting anything, Théoden."

Théoden stared at him with a look of supreme horror. "Nothing at all?"

"No, I don't think so. Adults don't usually get presents." Théoden's look of horror, if anything, increased. Aragorn smiled. "It's not so bad, Théoden. Adults get lots of presents when they're younger, but as they get older…"

"They don't _want _presents anymore?" Théoden asked disbelievingly.

"Not…exactly."

"Then why don't they get presents anymore?"

Stumped for a third time by the boy's sudden questions, Aragorn shook his head and tried to think quickly. "Well, Théoden, as you get older, I think you find that the best present of all is simply being with those you love."

Silenced at last, Théoden sat still for a long time, trying to absorb the information.

With perfect timing, Morwen appeared in the doorway. She smiled at the two of them. "Time to go, Théoden. I hope you've been keeping Captain Thorongil…entertained?"

Aragorn chuckled. "Very."

Théoden hopped down off the chair and smiled once at Thorongil before following Morwen out into the hall.

Alone at last, Aragorn let himself sink down into the pillows with a sigh of pleasure. The barely subdued pain from his chest wound ached, and the throbbing in his head sapped what little strength remained. Feorh hadn't returned yet, a fact which he took as a blessing. The older woman would have insisted on hovering for at least ten minutes before allowing him to actually get any rest. He was willing to admit that he was an invalid—in the condition he was in, he could hardly argue—but he _could _still manage to sleep without help.

Softly, he felt a deep, and sudden, exhaustion begin to fold around him. He was weary. Very weary. Without any further resistance, he allowed his eyes to slide close. Tomorrow, with its problems—old and new—would come soon enough…

**---o--oOo--o---**

Théoden ran his fingers over the wooden horse in his hands, feeling the intricately carved details. It had been a birthday present from his parents last year. He couldn't wait to see what they'd gotten him this year. Judging from the way they grinned every time he asked about it, it was sure to be good.

Thinking of birthday presents brought his mind back to his visit with Thorongil earlier that morning. He still couldn't quite fathom the thought of not even _wanting _presents. Thorongil couldn't have really meant it. How could everyone have forgotten his birthday? Théoden felt angry just thinking about it. Thorongil deserved a wonderful birthday, with _lots _of presents, but everyone seemed to have forgotten. He couldn't let that happen.

_And even if no one else remembers, _I_ will_ _get him a present, _he decided, determinedly.

"…but I'm worried. These last few days he hasn't been acting like himself. Don't tell me you haven't noticed, Thengel?"

"Of course I've noticed, my dear. But I don't think you should worry so much. Everyone has their days, and their moods. Thorongil has so much resting on his shoulders and, although he usually carries those burdens tirelessly, we still have to allow him room to be human every now and then."

Théoden pretended to be engrossed with his toys, even while his ears tuned in to his parents' conversation. They appeared to have completely forgotten his presence, and he wasn't about to remind them of it. At mention of Thorongil, he listened even more carefully. Although he was too young to understand, entirely, what they were talking about, he could sense the underlying anxiety that pervaded the room as they spoke.

Thengel leaned back in his chair, staring off pensively at the far wall. "If you'll remember, this isn't the first time he's had one of these moods, either. No doubt, it is simply his own way of dealing with personal trouble, of some sort."

Morwen rested her elbows on the table, idly pushing the remainder of breakfast around the plate with a fork. "I know I sound paranoid, but somehow I feel that it's worse than usual this time. He seems more weary than troubled. It's as if he's straining himself too hard, in too many directions, all at once..."

"Is this your subtle way of telling me I overuse and overwork my Marshals?" Thengel teased lightly.

Morwen eyed him steadily. "No, not all of them, just Thorongil."

"Ah, so you think I rely too heavily on him, then?"

"Perhaps. You and I both know Thorongil's advice is always worth having, and I'm comforted to know you seek it on so many important decisions."

Thengel shook his head in fond exasperation. "Women: I'll never understand them. Exactly what _are _you getting at, Morwen. I'm afraid you've lost me. First you tell me I'm overtaxing him, and then you tell me I must rely on his counsel."

"What I'm saying is that Thorongil is under a lot of stress, and although he'd never ask it of you, he deserves this much after all his years of faithful service. You must grant his unspoken request."

"And what would that be? You know I won't go prying into his personal affairs. That's been an unspoken trust between me and my men for many years. I won't force them to tell me about anything they don't wish to tell me, regarding their private matters."

Morwen set down the fork and sat back in her chair, and said softly, "I know that, and appreciate it, as I'm certain they do. I don't ask that you go prying into his private life, or stop asking him for counsel. I merely suggest you give him some room to breathe. If he has matters of his own to settle, then _let _him settle them. But give him the time to do it."

Thengel slowly began to nod his head. "Yes, I think you are right… He does need a rest from all this. I've known it for a while, but it's easy to put off. There will never be a 'convenient' time for me to let him take a break, but it must be done, nonetheless."

"Then you won't put it off any longer?" Morwen asked, her voice daring him to say no.

"I must ask him about the attack, but after that, yes. If needs be, I will _order _him to rest."

Morwen smiled contentedly at that. "Good. And knowing the Captain, you _may_ have to order him."

Thengel chuckled. "Indeed."

Despite herself, Morwen couldn't help but continue to wonder, with a woman's sympathy, what it was that kept Thorongil so worried. Absentmindedly, she began to voice her thoughts out loud. "I know we can't interfere, but I do wonder what keeps his mind so preoccupied…"

From his corner, Théoden couldn't keep quiet any longer. "Well I _do_ know!"

Both parents' eyes turned to their child, now standing beside the table.

Morwen smiled gently. "Know what, Théoden?"

Théoden spoke up adamantly, "Know what's making him worry."

"And what would that be?" Morwen asked, narrowing her eyes in puzzlement. What ideas had the child come up with now? What could he possibly know of the worries of a man like Thorongil?

"He's sad because we all forgot his birthday," Théoden declared with bold conviction.

Thengel and Morwen exchanged glances.

"His birthday?" Thengel inquired. "How do you know it's his birthday?"

"Because he _told _me. His birthday is next week, and he's not getting presents, or _anything_."

Thengel smiled at this. "Well, we can't let that happen, can we?"

Théoden grinned. "I'm going to get him one—a big one."

Morwen's eyes shone with love, as she picked him up and set him in her lap. She rested her cheek against his, and looked across the table at Thengel. "I think he'd like that very much, little one."

Of course, she knew Thorongil's troubles ran much deeper than worrying over his _birthday_. But the gesture, however simplistic and child-like, might keep him from brooding over whatever problems occupied his mind, at least for a time.

* * *

**TBC... **

**I'd really love to know your thoughts, so, please, even if it's just a short line or two, I would really appreciated it :-) **


	4. Restless Plans

_**See first chapter for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes.**_

**A/N: So many lovely reviews, and I've only posted three chapters! Thank you so much--your comments never fail to put a bounce in my step. Just ask my family: the difference is as obvious after I get feedback, as after that first cup of coffee in the morning. :)**

**(Urg. As I was _just _getting ready to post this, I noticed that The Site has messed up the formating so some of the words are scrambled together. -sigh- I think I've got most of them corrected again, but some words might still be weird...)  
**

**And here is chapter four, wherein you are introduced to Teh Villain…  
**

* * *

**Chapter 4: Restless Plans **

Thengel strode down the hall with determined steps. Two days had passed since the attempt had been made on Thorongil's life and, after a number of hotly-contested "discussions," Neylor had finally given him permission to speak to the Captain about what had happened.

To everyone's great relief, Thorongil was growing rapidly better as each day went by. Thengel smiled at the thought of his resilient friend. No doubt, by now, he was claiming to be _completely _well, and fully recovered from the ordeal. Although he might be over the worst and most dangerous stage, it was quite apparent he was far from full recovery. At least, apparent to everyone _but_ Thorongil. Thorongil, he realized with dread, would probably already be making plans to attend the next council meeting, and worrying over the decisions that would need to be made.

Morwen had set him quite a task, convincing the headstrong captain to take a break from his duties. This morning's conversation foreboded a long argument that would most likely end with blatant orders on his part. He hoped it wouldn't have to come to that, but he would, at all costs, carry through with his mission, no matter how difficult or impossible it might seem. For Thorongil's own good,he_ would_ have the victory today.

He stopped before the solid wooden door, hastily shoved aside his lingering reluctance, and pushed it open.

Thorongil was propped up against at least half-a-dozen pillows, book in hand. Thengel noted, with satisfaction, that his skin tone was regaining a more natural color. He hesitated in the shadow of the doorway. Thorongil's slightly glazed eyes didn't seem to have comprehended his presence yet. His gaze was far away from the book in his hands, and his surroundings. At first Thengel feared the expression on his face to be one of pain, but then his brows drew together in an almost classic expression of worry. Thengel stood rooted to the ground, as the other man's expression changed several times. The emotions were gradual as they passed his face fleetingly, but they were easy enough to read.

Watching the varying expressions of emotional pain cross his face, Thengel suddenly felt guilty, taking advantage of the captain's distraction while he was in such a vulnerable state. It felt almost like he was eavesdropping, in a manner of speaking. He cleared his throat and stepped closer to the bed.

Thorongil's eyes cleared, his thoughts sluggishly returning to the present reality. He started when his eyes fell on Thengel.

"Thengel-King…" he started, beginning to rise.

Thengel quickly interposed, pressing him back against the pillows. "Gods, Thorongil, you need not rise because of my presence. There is no call for quite that much formality here. You are, after all, only just recovering from what might very well have been your death-bed."

Thorongil smiled somewhat sheepishly. "I'd almost forgotten that, for a moment there…"

Thengel sat down heavily. "Thorongil, my friend, it would seem Morwen was absolutely right about you."

"'Right' about me, in what way?" Thorongil asked, an uncertain edge to his voice.

"After all these years of loyal service, you're still just as determined to work yourself to death as the first day you enlisted as a soldier for Rohan." He shook his head. "Come now, you can't be completely oblivious to the fact that you need a break."

Thorongil frowned. "I do?"

Thengel sighed, rubbing his temples in anticipation of a headache, although he didn't have one—yet. "Yes, Captain, I think you do."

"Have I…" Thorongil began hesitantly. "Have I been...lacking in my performance. You aren't—"

"No," Thengel broke in quickly, to assure him. "No, you haven't been lacking." He smiled. "And I'm not _about _to let you go. I speak only of a matter of weeks. You have always served me very well, and still do, but it is time for you to take a rest from your duties. You look tired, Thorongil, my friend."

Thorongil chuckled, and joked weakly, "Tiredness, I've noticed, does tend to be one of the less desirable side-effects of being stabbed."

"Thorongil…" Thengel added sternly, but not without a hint of amusement. "I'm serious about this. If needs be, I will _order _you to take a break. I would rather not have to do that, but I will if you force my hand."

Thorongil sighed, easing his head back onto the abundance of pillows that supported him. "And here I thought I'd been handling it all quite well."

"You have, my friend, but your preoccupation, I fear, has been noticed by much of the court."

Thorongil flinched. "That bad, eh?"

"Yes, that bad."

Thorongil sighed again. "Very well, your Majesty, I will take a break. This enforced rest couldn't have come at a better time, really. Neylor won't let me out of bed for several more days. Once that time is up, I should be ready to—"

"Thorongil, two days wasn't what I had in mind."

"Oh, that's right," Thorongil said with distaste. "You said something about a 'matter of weeks'."

"Yes, and I meant it too. Your break starts—not _ends_—the day you leave this room."

"But, my Lord, all this business about a spy in the court, and—"

"That is why I am here now. We will talk about that in a minute. I do want your advice on that matter. At the moment, however, what I want is your word of honor that you will obey me, and _relax_." Thengel looked warningly at him, as he opened his mouth to issue another excuse. "I would rather not, but if you refuse to rest, I'll just have to confine you to some place to get forced relaxation. I'm sure you'd rather not spend the next month in the dungeons."

Thorongil shook his head ruefully. "I see. That does leave me with few options. Very well, I choose liberty."

"Good. A wise choice." Thengel couldn't help but smile somewhat smugly. "Now that that's settled, we must get down to business before Neylor decides I've outworn my welcome in 'his' sick-room."

"I'm afraid that what I can supply will scarcely clear anything up."

"I thought you'd probably say as much. However, you're the only full eyewitness to what all that happened. We must _try _to make sense out of it."

"I'm only too glad to recount what happened, but I've replayed it again and again in my mind, and most of it simply doesn't make sense."

"Lord Araedhelm said that the men were no ordinary robbers?" Thengel inquired.

"Yes, that much is almost certain."

"I'll admit, drinking poison after failing in an attempted robbery does seem a little…extreme. After an attempted murder, perhaps, but it's hardly conceivable for two men to drink poison to escape from trial for highway robbery." Thengel shook his head. "It's hard to believe six men would fight to the death over something so trivial, in the first place."

"They weren't after any of my possessions," Thorongil stated firmly.

"I'm listening."

"As you said, they fought urgently straight from the beginning. In addition, they fought with skill. Not the desperate skill of a peasant forced, under hard times, to fight for their bread. They fought as fully trained men, with the reflexes of experienced fighters. Even if that alone weren't enough to prove them of higher suspicion than mere thieves, there's more."

"Yes?"

Thorongil still paused. "I hesitate to use what I heard as irrefutable proof, because my mind was somewhat…unclear at the time. They caught me by surprise, when they first attacked. That was when I was stabbed. Then, when they managed to pull my from the saddle, I hit my head on one of the boulders."

Thengel felt his ire rise, as the captain recounted the tale. If the "robbers" hadn't been dead already, he might have been tempted to mete out some stern justice himself. He quickly subdued his feelings when he noticed the slight look of worry that Thorongil was giving him. "Nothing, Captain, continue."

"After I hit my head they, believing me unconscious, talked freely in front of me. I can only recall bits and pieces of their conversation, but I think two of them were wondering if I was dead…" He stopped for a moment, racking his memory. "…and then one of them, their leader, I think, said something about 'Captain Thorongil not being so easily gotten rid of', and then he said they'd better 'make sure'." He looked at the king. "They did know who I was, and they wanted me, specifically, dead. Unless their conversation was nothing but the workings of my imagination."

Thengel smiled. "At least in all years _I've_ known you, I don't think I've ever had the opportunity to accuse you of having an overactive imagination. We shall take it as evidence, or at least the only evidence we have so far. Do you think they were hired mercenaries of some kind? Hired to kill you?"

"They could have been. However, I don't think so."

"But you just said they were after your life, and their conversation confirms that."

Thorongil held up a hand. "I believe they were after my life—but I don't think they were _paid_ to do it. When Araedhelm rode in, we managed to disarm the two remaining attackers, and that was when they drew the vials of poison. The look in their eyes as they drank from those vials was so…determined and proud. During the fight, things happened so quickly, I could hardly say what any of the men looked like. But, in that moment, I could see such passion on their faces." Vivid pictures of those two pale faces, identical in their ferocity, even as life drained from their bodies. He shook his head. "I do not know. Perhaps they were mercenaries, perhaps they truly hated me and wanted me dead for reasons of their own. Either is possible."

When Thorongil had reached the end of his narrative, Thengel sat quietly, his face grim and worried. "But _why_? You are high in rank, and everyone in Rohan knows you have much favor in court; but you are well loved—a hero even—of the people in general."

"Apparently not _all _the people," Thorongil stated, in the same quiet tone of voice. "Every man has his enemies." _And Eru knows I've had more than a few in my day already._

"Well, if they don't all loveyou, I certainly haven't heard of anyone hating you enough to want you _dead_. It's so senseless…" the King growled angrily. "What reason would anyone have to kill you? You don't have any enemies that I've ever heard of."

Thorongil smiled sadly. "Nor do I know of any personal grudges taken up against me. That doesn't mean there aren't any. I have risen rapidly in rank—perhaps _too_ rapidly, in the opinions of some? My enemy may not be known to me."

Thengel scoffed at the idea. "No, I don't believe it. You are known and accepted here in court, as well as by the common people of Rohan. I cannot see anyone harboring ill will towards you over your success. However sudden your succession to your position, it is obvious you have earned it, and you never lord it over those lesser in rank. Why should anyone hate you so bitterly for it? Besides, in your death, all they would receive is vengeance, not higher rank for themselves," He laughed humorlessly. "Unless, of course, we are now to suspect your second-in-command?"

"No, no, of course not, I am merely sorting through the options." Thorongil shook his head, his face a mask of uncertainty. "I think there is only one possible answer left."

"Well, do enlighten me," Thengel said, his words somewhat harsher than he meant to be in his frustration and anxiety.

"It is quite simple. They were not after me, they were after _you_." In response to Thengel's look of confusion, he added, "There's something more serious at work here than the attempt on my life."

Thengel looked incredulous. "Isn't it serious enough that six men tried to murder you? And what do you mean, they're after _me_?"

"I speak of a far bigger problem than a single assassination, my Lord. I say they were after you, but perhaps I should say, they were after your _throne_. The sudden death of any of the Marshals in a time of peace is bound to cause confusion and fear in Rohan. Perhaps that was what purpose my death was supposed to serve for our unknown adversary."

"Yes, I do see what you're saying," Thengel's eyes narrowed in a glare, though not directed at Thorongil, and added with exasperation, "although I'd almost rather not. Such careful planning forebodes of a very cunning mind behind these schemes, if all you say is true." Thengel looked thoughtfully at Thorongil. "Certainly, eliminating you would seem an obvious way to cripple me. Apparently Morwen wasn't the first to notice how heavily I rely upon you."

Thorongil tried not to look as uncomfortable as he felt under those keen brown eyes, that smiled at him with mingled admiration and amusement. "Perhaps. Then again, I may have been their target, simply because I left the protection of these walls first. I may simply have had perfect timing, and not quite enough sense to stay indoors on a rainy day." He matched the King's smile evenly.

Thengel sobered, sighing softly. "What you speak of has already been lying heavily on my heart for some time now."

Aragorn frowned deeply. "Then there are more reasons that would lead you to believe that someone is…plotting."

"I fear it has gone beyond that stage. After what you have said, I am now convinced more than ever, that someone hasbeen plotting, and is now putting that plot into action."

"But who?"

Thengel shook his head. "That is the question I have been asking myself every day, for what seems like a very long time. I don't know who, Thorongil, but I am almost certain it is someone we know. Perhaps someone we talk to everyday, never recognizing that 'friend' as a foe."

"You think it is someone in court, then? It would make the most sense. If it is someone we know, someone we converse with on a daily basis, then we have a very skilled actor on our hands."

"Yes, very skilled to have plotted carefully for so long without attracting attention to himself until now." The King rose from his chair. "However, you at least, must put these thoughts aside for the time being." He looked warningly at Thorongil. "You will remember your promise to me, and rest for a while?"

Thorongil's eyebrows shot down in feigned offence. "Can you doubt me, sire?"

"Easily."

"And here I thought you trusted me…"

"I do trust you—in most areas." Thengel smiled, moving towards the door. "But your own physical condition is _not _one of those areas. Even if you don't value your health, I do." Their eyes met, and his voice turned serious again. "I have a feeling I'm going to need you, more than ever, my friend. Rest."

**---o--oOo--o---**

Heolstor glared fixedly into the flames. They seemed to mock his dark mood, crackling cheerfully, flooding the room in an orange glow.

His hard gaze never faltering, he lifted the goblet of wine that rested on the table in front of him, and took a small sip. Holding it in his mouth for a moment, he appreciated its potent taste. He knew a good wine when he tasted it and, although it wasn't the besthe'd tasted, it was a good year. However, even the distraction of a savory and well-aged wine could not distract him from his problem. Not this night.

Setting the wine down again, he eyed the chess board set out before him on the same table. Like nearly everything else in the room, the chess board was expensive. The pieces were made from skillfully carved Mumakil tusks, their whiteness contrasted beautifully with the dark, gilded wood of the board. He picked up a piece, turning it absentmindedly between his thumb and forefinger.

Chess: a war of minds.

Sometimes, in order to win, it called for desperate measures, opening yourself up knowingly to attack from one direction, in order to gain a greater advantage in another. Often, you lost a battle, but not necessarily the war. Loosing all your pawns meant nothing if, in the end, you secured your king. What did it matter, even if you lost _all_—knights, rooks, bishops, pawns, and queen—if you still had your king at the very end. Of course, you had to have your _opponent's_ king in the end, as well.

At times, in order to secure him, you were forced to commit apparent suicide. Subtle attacks could be just as effective as more open stratagems. That was his favorite tactic. He could spend hours planning those cunning, delicate maneuvers, painstakingly mapping out different moves. It was always worth it, if only to see the look of surprise on the face of his adversary, as he put his king in check-mate. It was always worth it, just to see that look of premature smugness turn into one of shocked silence.

Of course, after about two rounds with all the servants who understood the game, and half the court, he was having an increasingly difficult time finding anyone to play chess _with_. However, he really couldn't bring himself to let any of the servants win, and most of the court officials were simply too distracted to even put up a noteworthy fight, much less care who won. Now, whenever he tried to engage one of his former opponents, they would simply shrug, and laughingly declare him far too advanced for them.

And he was.

He smiled with unashamed pride. His skill _was _far too advanced for them. And not just in chess. Chess was a game, where losing cost the conquered party nothing, except for possibly his pride, and any money wagered. Life was a game none could afford to loose. If you did, much more than your ego or wealth could be lost. Heolstor didn't intend just to survive life, either, he intended to win it.

For five years now, his careful planning had been done in secret, even as he rose in rank. That had been the easiest part. Rising in rank needed little intellect, just ruthless ambition to do anything it took. A few times, the strength of his own ambition had been tested, but he'd passed with flying colors. Nothing would stand in his way, not friends, loyalties, or family.

After he'd risen in rank to Marshal, then had come the difficult part. The last part. The part where intellect was truly needed. If he lost this next round, his life would be forfeited, and there would be no second chance. One more step forward, and there would be no turning back, no matter what.

In a moment of weakness, once, he'd considered stopping where he was. After all, commanding a third of the Rohirric army wasn't a trivial position. His ruthless ambition had taken him far indeed. Of course, in the end, he'd decided he couldn't give up. Murdering your own father to rise in rank was, generally, considered a rather drastic measure. He was already too deeply involved to simply stop. Eventually, some bored official would discover that Captain Halesyen hadn't died quite as "naturally" as they'd all come to believe. Well, in that case, he would just have to keep all the officials busy. They would be far from bored when he got through with them.

And so he'd gone forward with his plans, and all had gone well.

All had gone well—until Thorongil.

He frowned, and returned to glaring at the fire. If he prided himself on his mental prowess, then he also callously chastised himself over every failure, great or small. Really, he should have known better. He should have realized that Captain Thorongil couldn't possibly have been so easy to get rid of. He was no fool, to simply be disposed of.

Six men! Even six of his best men hadn't been enough to best him. Thorongil hadn't reached his position by being a mindless fool. The man was a force to be recognized, and dealt with seriously. Such a dangerous combination of intelligence and physical skill with the blade could not be forgotten, or taken lightly. Yet, there had to be a way, some weakness…

He would have to find a way to silence him, before it was too late. Such an intelligent mind would not dismiss the attack easily, and a mind such as his might just be clever enough to read too much into it. By escaping, Thorongil had only sealed his fate more solidly. If he allowed him to go now, it would almost certainly jeopardize the whole plan. Still, it was pity to have to kill him; he would have made such a wonderful ally. There was no real hope of that, however. He'd seen the Captain's fierce loyalty to the King. No mind-games he could play would ever convince him to turn against his lord. A very great pity, indeed.

He would have to make more plans. He clenched his teeth in frustration, as he felt a headache set in. There was too much to think about, too many options. Soon, he would have to act, and when he did his plans had to be flawless. Before any of that could happen, Thorongil had to be dead. More than ever, he was convinced that, in order for those plans to be flawless, he couldn't afford to let him live. But how?

Shutting his eyes, he began to massage his temples, and think. Hard. There weren't many nights left to make his plans. His timing had to be perfect. He had to be prepared when that perfect time came. He hated to rush his thinking processes. If he didn't pay enough attention to details, there would almost certainly be glitches.

For an hour he sat, statuesque and unmovable, as his clinical brain studied each twist and turn the course of the next weeks might throw at him. He came up with one set of plans, then hastily cast them aside. He came up with a second, but also abandoned it. They were too uncertain. Doubtless, he would be forced to take risks—the whole scheme was nothing _but _one big risk—but he would carefully choose which risks he _preferred _to take.

His headache increased and, rousing, he scowled at the still innocently crackling fire. It had begun to burn low, one could almost imagine because of Heolstor's chilling glare. Despite all his effort, no perfect plans seemed to be willing to present themselves tonight. Ever since he could remember, he'd had the makings of a plan, but never the full picture, only a rough idea, vaguely sketched and outlined in the back of his mind.

For a long time, he'd only had to focus on steps one and two, but now it was time for step three. This was going to take at least a couple more nights of hard thought. He couldn't force inspiration to come.

Draining his goblet, he leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs. His eyelids felt heavy, and he was just dozing off, when…

There was a faint, but urgent knock, followed by an even more urgent whisper.

"My Lord! Lord Heolstor, let me in—quickly!"

Heolstor rolled his eyes and begrudgingly got to his feet to open the door. The man outside fairly fell into the room as soon as it was open and stood hunched over, shaking slightly.

"I thought you might not be here," the man panted breathlessly.

Heolstor looked almost pityingly at the man. "At thistime of night? Where else would expect to find me, imbecile?"

The man dipped his head deferentially. "Of course. Forgive me, my Lord."

"For what? Being naturally inclined towards stupidity?" Heolstor snorted, taking his seat once again.

The man clenched his teeth slightly, apparently biting down on his pride. He ground out a little more tensely. "Forgive me, I lost my head trying to maneuver my way through the halls to find your apartment in the dark. You warned all of us that, if caught, you would not protect us. And so it would mean our lives. I fully intend to keep mine."

Heolstor shook his head almost mournfully. "You idiot, and you think looking terrified for your life is going to help you _keep _it?"

The man clenched his teeth harder, and pronounced his title with forced respect. "No, my Lord, however _some_ of us still have normal human reactions to near-death experiences."

Heolstor's voice was flat. "Do not speak to me as if I was some child. Fear is useless, hide it if you wish to retain your head." He looked sidelong at the other man. "It's obviously not worth much, but I suppose it's of value to _you_. Do try to quit quivering so, it really does betray your intentions. That is all the advice I can give you."

Fixing a forced smile on his face, the man said stiffly, "Thank you, my Lord."

"Enough. What brought a coward like you sniveling out of your hole this time of night? Speak quickly, I grow tired."

The man inclined his head again and began to speak quickly, in a hushed voice, "The plans did not go well. We have failed."

Heolstor's sat up with a jerk. "You _what_?"

The man took a rapid step backward, holding his hands up as if they might protect him from Heolstor's wrath. "F-forgive me, my Lord, they did their best, but there was no chance—"

"Are you saying my plan was foolish?" Heolstor cut the man off mid-apology. "Even if my plans, by some inconceivable chance, _were _faulty, there is always a _chance_, you moron." Heolstor managed to keep his voice low, but it never lost its intensity. "Stop with the excuses, and stop with your cowardly attempts at apologies."

Heolstor stopped long enough to clench his jaw, and the unfortunate man seized the opportunity to speak with the eagerness of a condemned man grasping a life-line.

"My Lord, please, we did our best—"

Heolstor cut him off again, this time his voice was calmer. Which wasn't necessarily a good thing. "Tell me, which plans did you manage to ruin thistime? I should dearly like to know exactly _what _I'm killing you for."

The man's face paled. "No, my Lord, please…"

"Tell me."

The man drew in a shaky breath. "The plan was…was the one r-regarding to Captain Thorongil. We chose our six best-trained and most experienced men, just like you said to, but he was too strong for us."

Now Heolstor's face was completely calm, but his eyes were smoldering. He spoke precisely, "Are you a _complete _idiot?" By now, the other man had decided that his responses were hardly necessary to such rhetorical questions, and didn't answer. "Do you actually think that I didn't already receive that information? I—live—in—Meduseld." He rose to stand face to face with the other man. "Did you actually think I wouldn't have received word of that particular failing by now? You _fool_. Word of the attempt on Thorongil's life has had time to travel _twice_ around Edoras!"

Face flaming with embarrassment and fear, the man looked at his feet. "Of course, my Lord, how stupid of me…"

"How _very _stupid of you." Heolstor corrected. "You will be demoted for this." He paused, suddenly realizing he didn't even remember the name of the man who stood trembling before him.

Not knowing what to say, the man tried a last-ditch attempt to appear useful by supplying his name. "My name is—"

"Your name is of no consequence. Now get out of my sight. If you are caught, I will personally see to it that you are accused of spying, and accordingly hung. On second thought…get out of here before I do it myself."

The man bowed quickly, and scrambled out into the dark hallway. Heolstor shut the door as quietly as his temper would allow him, and slumped into his chair. Idiots. Were all his men such idiots? What he wouldn't give for one independently-acting intellectual such as Thorongil. What he wouldn't give for a lieutenant who could actually think on his own. Mehdal was a decent second-in-command, if somewhat lacking in imagination, but he'd been forced to send him halfway across Rohan to keep an eye on the situation there. Which left him with only utter imbeciles to help him.

Thorongil.

He hated the man, and at the same time admired him. Grabbing the already half-empty pitcher from the table, he poured himself another full cup of wine. If it were possible, he would like to see the death of such a man, to actually see how the man met with death. Well…perhaps there would be time for a little pleasure later on. If all went smoothly, perhaps he could afford to actually be there when the Captain was eliminated. At this rate, he was going to have to do the job personally, if he ever hoped for success.

He set his cup down and rose. Now for a few hours sleep. Tomorrow, his tedious act continued.**  
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**TBC... **

**Chapter five should be posted around the same time next week. :)**

**Feedback equals much, much gratitude from Nef. -g- **


	5. Fatal Errand

_**See first chapter for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes. **_

**A/N: -shivers- Brr…we have blizzard-like conditions here--and I'm LOVING it! -bg- Fortunately, it's not supposed to let up for days yet...**

**Just a quick heads-up for the second section of this chapter. It was a bit of an experiment in writing style, written alternately, back-and-forth, from Thorongil and Heolstor's POVs. I hope it doesn't get to confusing, but I really wanted to give _both _of their thoughts during that part. So, if you do find it confusing, be reassured the entire story's not going to be like that. ;-)**

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****Chapter 5: Fatal Errand **

He was dead.

Earlier had been terrible enough, being forced to bring news to an irritable Heolstor in the middle of the night, but now he was to be the bearer of even _worse _news. But it couldn't wait. They'd all agreed on that much. Heolstor would be even more angry if the news was delayed by so much as a day. It had to be delivered today.

_But why _me he thought, irritably. His companions had sent him on a suicide mission. They all knew he was being sent to his death. But, then, he _was _the most freshly demoted. Everyone had agreed, Suicide Messenger was the lowest position one could sink to. And he had, of course, been appointed immediately.

Heolstor would kill him.

He wanted to scream, tear the letter up, and ride away from Meduseld as fast as his horse would take him. But Heolstor would find him. Somehow he always did. No one who played a double-game with him and ever succeeded. There were few deserters, indeed, among his ranks, and with good reason.

It was doubtful he would survive the afternoon. Even if he managed to get through Edoras without being caught, he would then be left to face Heolstor. Still, at least there was a small chance. A very small chance, but a chance nonetheless.

He clenched his jaw harder, and continued to stride down the mostly-empty halls. Remembering Heolstor's "advice", he slowed his pace as much as his nerves would allow, and tried to stop shaking. Perhaps if he actedlike he knew where he was going no one would question him about his destination. Truth be told, he _wasn't _completely sure where to go. Heolstor hadn't been in his room, and now the only recourse that was left him was to frantically search for the Marshal, and hope he could remember his way back out. Meduseld wasn't all that huge, but to his panicked mind, every turn seemed to be leading him in endless circles.

He passed a few giggling and chattering maids, but continued on, straight-backed, clenching the letter in his hand tightly. A deep voice behind him almost made him jump.

"Are you looking for someone?"

He whirled, and came face to face with the last man on earth he'd wanted to see. Thorongil. He cursed inwardly. Thorongil was supposed to be wounded. He was supposed to still be abed, not accosting traitors in the hallway. After a moment of these terror-stricken thoughts, he realized that Thorongil was still staring at him.

"M-my…employer," he stammered out lamely. "Employer" didn't exactly describe Heolstor's position, but he couldn't think of any other half-acceptable title to give him.

Thorongil smiled. "But who _is _your employer? You appear none too confident of your way. Perhaps if you would tell me who you are searching for…?" He looked closely at the slightly-trembling man, and then down at the letter in his hand. What was the man so fearful of?

"I'm not a spy. You have no right to question me," he said, the quaver in his voice ruining his attempt at sounding confident.

"I'm not accusing you of anything. But if you aren'ta spy, then why can't you tell me who that letter is meant for? Come, I am on my way to meet with the Council now. If you tell me who that letter is for, perhaps I could deliver it for you, and save you some time."

He studied the face of the dark-haired captain suspiciously. No. He couldn't trust Thorongil, of all men. Even Heolstor seemed to view him with admiration, and a degree of fear. He could be up to no good, asking to take the message from him. As much as he would prefer to allow Thorongil to deliver it, he could trust the letter in no one else's hands. Least of all Thorongil's.

"No," he said aloud, backing away a few paces. "No, I will deliver it myself."

Thorongil frowned. "Is something the matter? You look ill."

He _felt _ill. Seeing Thorongil's brow creased into a frown, he felt his skin go clammy. To his exhausted, fearful mind, filled with panic over being in enemy territory, everyone wanted to arrest him and hang him for treason. Heolstor had warned him enough times about the consequences should he be caught. Even now, he could see the tall captain's eyes narrow with incriminating suspicion, as if he could see right through all his subterfuge. He was used to playing this game of treason out in the open, surviving by his sword not his wits! Almost subconsciously, his hand reached up and felt inside his vest. His frantic fingers touched the cool, reassuring smoothness of glass. They closed around the vial. He could almost smile now… It would be so easy. So much easier to go this way.

Thorongil's worry increased, as the man began to back away. "What is wrong?"

Sweat ran down the sides of the other man's face, but the smile remained fixed on his face. He would not die screaming in some god-forsaken prison cell, ready to betray anyone to escape from the pain. No, he would do as Heolstor had always said to do. He would die quickly and mercifully at his own hand.

"Nothing's wrong, Captain." His fingers shook violently as he drew out the vial and uncorked it. "Nothing at all." With one last smirk at Thorongil, he emptied its contents into his mouth.

Thorongil's eyes flew wide in horror at sight of the vial. He sprang forward, but the man stubbornly refused to allow his arm to be wrenched away until the vial was empty. It fell to the floor and shattered. The man paled, and then slowly closed his eyes in death. Thorongil caught him awkwardly as he fell forward, grunting in pain as the still-healing wound in his side was jarred.

Footsteps echoed down the hall behind him, and he turned his head to look. Thengel was moving swiftly in their direction. Without saying a word, Thengel quickly moved forward to help with the weight of the man. At his call, two of the palace guards soon appeared.

Thengel finally turned to his captain. "What happened? Who is this man?"

"I only wish Iknew." Thorongil sighed and shook his head, and commented wryly, "I'm really beginning to think it's me—lately everyone I meet seems to have the sudden urge to commit suicide."

"Then you don't have any idea who he is? Or rather, _was_…"

"No." Thorongil bent forward to pick of a piece of the shattered vial that lay at their feet. "But, he had a vial, just like the men who attacked me on the road. As soon as he saw me, he was terrified. He must have thought I knew what he was up to… I only wish I _did_."

Thengel's eyes caught on the letter, where it had fluttered to the floor unnoticed. "What is this?" He picked it up and studied it. It didn't seem to be addressed to anyone on the outside. "Well, the seal certainly isn't going to tell us anything." He broke the plan, un-imprinted red seal and scanned its contents. Instantly, a groan broke from his lips.

Thorongil stepped closer. "What is it?"

Thengel turned the letter so he could see it.

"The message is coded."

Nodding, Thengel refolded the letter. "Come, we must go to in to the council. There is much we have to discuss."

**---o--oOo--o---**

Heolstor shifted in the uncomfortable, un-cushioned, straight-backed chair. They hadn't even offered refreshment this morning. Barbaric. Once his plans succeeded—once he was in charge here—there would be a many changes coming to Rohan. He shifted again. To begin with, he would replace these cursed uncomfortable blocks of wood that everyone insisted upon calling "chairs." Finally, he gave up trying to find a comfortable way to settle his back against the chair and leaned his elbows forward on the dark-wooded table.

Even while a continuous trail of curses ran through his mind, he kept up his act. No one could have begun to guess the dark thoughts hidden by his outwardly pleasant expression. One by one, he purposefully allowed his gaze to linger on the faces of the various men gathered around the table, waiting patiently until their eyes met.

He smiled at one portly man close to the head of the table.

_Imbecile._

His eye made contact with the next gentleman, his smile never faltering.

_Pompous fool._

He nodded agreeably at the third gentlemen his eyes met.

_Idiot._

All around the table his eyes traveled, his face a mask of carefree smiles. Granted, he did look a little tired, but that only made him look more genuine and casual. The man next to him even had the gall to nudge him good-naturedly with an elbow. Masterfully ignoring his first instincts to glare at the man, Heolstor bestowed him with one of his liberal smiles.

"You're looking a bit on the worn side, Lord Heolstor," the man said pleasantly.

"Yes…" he drawled with equal pleasantness. "I did have rather a hard time getting to sleep last night."

_Spending the night maturing plans to overthrow a kingdom can do that to you._

He even stooped low enough to offer one of the feeble jokes he detested so much. "Let's hope I can stay awake during the meeting." He felt like such an idiot. If he wasn't careful, he'd end up becoming one of "them".

He shuddered at the thought, even while he managed to keep up a steady flow of small-talk with the man next to him. At times like this, he could hardly believe it was actually _his_ voice making all those petty comments.

A new voice entered the room and, hearing it, he froze. Luckily, the man he'd been engaged in conversation with wasn't exactly observant and, since he'd been doing ninety percent of the talking anyways, he didn't notice the sudden absence of any response from Heolstor.

Thorongil was here. For a second, indecisive emotions battled inside Heolstor, although he never allowed them to show on his face. On one hand, he was almost relieved to hear the captain's voice. At least it meant the opportunity for some intelligent conversation. On the other hand he, quite frankly, was beginning to hate Thorongil with a passion.

Finally, the incessant babbling of the man beside him broke through his thoughts. As soon as the man paused for breath, he was ready. "Ah, here is Captain Thorongil… I did want to have a word with him. Do excuse me."

Hardly waiting for a response, he pushed his chair out and, with numerous nods and apologies, painstakingly waded his way through three different conversations, before finally catching sight of Thorongil. When their eyes finally met, Heolstor's smile was dazzling and flawless as he greeted him.

"Captain, Thorongil! I did not expect to see you up so soon." Inwardly, he added, _I had not expected to see you up at _all… _Why, oh why couldn't they have just _killed _you? Why can't anything be that simple?_ But he kept his surprise natural, and pleased-sounding. "You look very well though…" He studied him was apparent concern. "A little pale yet, but very well considering the terrible wound you received. Yes," he repeated decidedly. "you look very well indeed, Captain." _And what pleasure it would give me to alter that. Permanently. _"Congratulations, on your hair-breadth escape. Rohan would be a different place without you, and your enthusiasm." _A _very _different place. Things would be so much simpler._

Thorongil studied Heolstor as intently as decorum and manners allowed. Why did he always feel so uncomfortable when he was around Heolstor? What was it about this cheerful, good-natured man that always somehow scared him? He smiled, despite his secret premonitions.

"Thank you, Lord Heolstor, I'm feeling nearly myself again." _I do not _see _malice in his eyes, then why do I _feel _it so strongly?_

"Good, Good…" Heolstor nodded with satisfaction. "I know the King appreciates your advice and, in times like this, he needs all his best captains around him." _Loosing you would have been a crippling loss. Too bad._

"You flatter me, my Lord." _Yes, he most definitely felt malice._

"Not at all, Captain. Thengel-King would truly have lost a valuable counselor if those rogues had been successful." _If those _idiots _had only fulfilled their task, I wouldn't have to spend so much of my valuable time trying to think of a new way to kill you._

Thorongil chuckled. "Well, the admiration is mutual." _However, I'm not so sure I trust you._

"I am truly honored and thankful that you think so." _And I'd be even more honored—and especially thankful—if you'd just oblige me and die right here and now. You'd save me so much trouble, Captain. Do consider… _"Come, have a seat next to me. You are looking better, but you are not fully recovered."

Thorongil bowed deferentially, and took the proffered seat. "Thank you." _He _seems_ genuine enough, but I why can't I shake these feelings? Why can't I trust him like all the other members of the council do? _In order to keep up a comfortable flow of conversation, he continued to talk idly, "Have any decisions been made in my absence?"

"Oh no, nothing of importance. We did hold council once, but I think everyone was too distracted to come to any real agreement. Now that you are here, however, I'm sure the King will want to get down to business." _Now that you are here, I'm going to have to be much more careful about what I say, and how I say it. If I so much as bat an eyelash wrong, I could be tying my own noose. Curse you to Mordor, Thorongil._

"Ah, then there willbe many matters to discuss." Thorongil pushed aside the disturbing encounter he'd had in the hall. He couldn't know exactly how much Thengel was going to make public yet. Realizing he'd paused just a moment too long for comfort, he added lamely, "Much to discuss." _Why do I get the distinct feeling you know exactly what I'm talking about? Why do I get the feeling you know _more _about what I'm talking about than _I _do?_

"Yes, I wouldn't be surprised if this meeting lasted long into the afternoon, or even later, if the matter of the Dunlendings is addressed." _I only hope I have enough time this evening to come up with a feasible new plan to end your miserable life. _

Thorongil gave a genuine smile of amusement at mention of the Dunlendings. "Yes, the Dunlendings… They, alone, could keep us here half the day." _Keep your eyes open, Thorongil. What, exactly, is it about him that makes you shudder?_

Heolstor laughed. "Let us hope that does not happen." _Let us hope we can retire before you grow too weary. It would be such a pity if you were to have a sudden relapse from your wound…_

With difficulty, Thorongil matched his smile. "You look like you're rather tired, yourself. Late night?" _Somehow, I don't think I want to learn any more about your nocturnal activities, Captain Heolstor._

"You have caught me, then," Heolstor was saying amiably. "I'm afraid I never could quite shake my tendency to stay up late. I'm quite nocturnal. Don't get into the habit, it can be quite inconvenient." _I have a number of inconveniencies in my life at the moment, thanks very much to you._

Trying to brush away just modicum of his suspicions, Thorongil teased lightly, "You and your chess. Perhaps that was what keeps you up so late into the night?" _Or is it something more sinister? Is it just my imagination, or do you not appreciate this line of questioning as much as you pretend to? _

Heolstor didn't flinch. "Yes, yes, you've caught me. I'm afraid it was the chess again." _Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me…We can't let _that _happen, can we?_

"Plotting to over-throw your next opponent?" _What are you hiding?_

"Of course," Heolstor returned with a cheerful and yet challenging expression. "I'm always plotting, in the hopes of a game. Lately, though, there does seem to be a horrible deficiency when it comes to worthy opponents…" Heolstor shot him a sly, but friendly glance. "I don't suppose you'd indulge me? I hear you play a good game of chess yourself, although I've never had the opportunity to witness it." _Yes, we shall play, Captain, we shall play. You and I shall match wits yet._

"Perhaps." Thorongil looked down at his hands somewhat sheepishly. "I'm afraid the King has as much as ordered me to take a rest from my duties, so it seems possible that I'll have plenty of time on my hands. I wouldn't mind trying a few tactics against you. But I must warn you, I probably won't be the 'worthy opponent' you seek. I am very much out of practice." _But believe me, I'll still be watching you._

"Well then, we shall have to play a couple of games, and let you warm up." _How I wish I had the time to properly kill you._

"I would enjoy that very much. If I have time to spare, I will definitely consider your offer." _At least it will afford me an opportunity to observe you more closely. _

"Do more than consider, Captain, accept. Iwould enjoy it very much, and I doubt you're half as out of practice as you claim." _Rest easy while you can, when we match our wits, it will be to the death. The pleasure, I assure you, will be all mine._

"My Lords!" Councilor Silfren was standing next to the King at the head of the table, trying to get everyone's attention. "My Lords, please, we must begin!" Finally, his voice seemed to break through the din, as most heads swiveled towards him. "My Lords, it is time to attend to business!" Finally the last conversations ceased. "Thank you," he said, in mock exasperation, as he sank back into his seat.

Thengel rose and began in a rather conversational, but dry tone of voice, "I won't waste time this morning lingering over unimportant matters—such as asking you all if you're well this morning." A small ripple of laughter ran along the table at that, and the King couldn't help but smile slightly. "Good, I'm glad to hear it. Then we can move on." His smile wavered, his face grim once more. His audience followed suit. "There are so many matters to be discussed, I hardly know where to start. However, I know a few of you will have specific interests you wish to have addressed. If so, speak now. Captain Anborn, why don't you start?"

Anborn, the oldest and most experienced of the three Marshals of the Mark, stood with his usual composed attitude. He had served for several years as First Marshal, and he'd carried his duties well, but for personal reasons, and as his responsibilities—both official and otherwise—multiplied, he had eventually stepped down. His current position, sometimes smilingly referred to that of "scapegoat", suited him well, and there was an air of easy-going confidence and control about him as he spoke. "Certainly, your Majesty." He gave one of his quiet, unobtrusive smiles. "I believe what I have to say is not of any great importance, but I shall allow the Council to decide. It is a report concerning Lord Mannalic."

At mention of Mannalic, there wasn't a straight face in the room. Mannalic, a highly paranoid man, sent complaints to the King several times a year. He had a good heart, and took careful care of the towns he governed, but whenever someone was sent to do a survey of the Westfold, they would _always _come back with a complaint from him of some kind. A couple of years ago, it had been Orcs, the year before that, it had been Wargs. This year, the theme was Wild Men. Just imagining what Mannalic had said this time brought a few muffled snickers from around the table.

Anborn continued, hiding his own amusement with some difficultly. "Yes, as I was saying about Lord Mannalic… He has lodged a complaint." He refrained, with obvious control from adding "_again_". He cleared his throat hastily to cover another smile. "As many of you have probably already guessed, it is concerning the Dunlendings." More quickly concealed mirth spread and died. Anborn spoke more rapidly now, as if trying to get the rest of his report out before he burst into laughter, and thus lost all his dignity. "He believes that Dunlendings are sneaking through Helm's Deep and, aided by…" His sense of professionalism didn't allow him to hesitate too long. "…by Saruman, are plotting to overtake Edoras. He says they're already encroaching upon the Westfold, causing disturbances among the people."

"Do you have any eye-witnesses of this, Captain?" Thengel asked seriously, faithfully treating the whole matter as the grave situation it would have been—had not Lord Mannalic been the source of the information.

Anborn followed the King's lead, replying with equal seriousness, "Yes, my Lord, there are at least half-a-dozen men in Halodawn who staunchly support his theories, and claim have seen these Dunlendings themselves."

"Did _you _see anything when you were there that would lead you to believe the rumors true?" Thengel continued to question him closely.

"Well…not exactly."

"Specify. Tell us what you saw."

"While I was there, Lord Mannalic received a report from one of his men, stating that three Wild Men had been spotted near the outskirts of the town. Anxious to convince me that what he said was true, Lord Mannalic insisted that I come with him to see some irrefutable proof."

"And?" Thengel urged, when Anborn paused. "Did you find any proof?"

Anborn looked down at the table. "No, my Liege, we saw…a couple of young boys playing hide-and-seek." Merciful to the last, Anborn added, "The boys' hair _was_…rather dirty, and bit long… Lord Mannalic and his men were quick to assure me that it was not these boys they had seen, but actual Dunlendings."

A small, rotund lord spoke up from down the table. "Anborn, even you must admit it: Lord Mannalic is either a complete liar, or else he's hallucinating. He would have us believe that, every year, some new evil of catastrophic proportions comes to the Westfold. We waste good men, and good soldiers chasing his so-called dangerous plots down to their origin. I weary of these discussions!"

Anborn was about to say something, but Thengel beat him to it. "Thank you, Lord Fordón, for your well-voiced concerns. I think most of us have long ago agreed that Lord Mannalic is prone to…exaggerate. I agree, it would be a waste to send good soldiers off on meaningless errands. However, we can not simply ignore Lord Mannalic, who has kept the Westfold safe from harm for many years. We must continue to give him our attention when he calls for aid, or when a serious crisis arises, much damage may be done before we realize what is happening. I have received another message. We must answer his call again."

"'_Again_?" Lord Fordón didn't even attempt to keep the dismay from his voice.

"Yes, _again_," Thengel replied evenly.

Anborn addressed the flustered Lord, his face portraying his usual flawless patience. "Do not worry, Lord Fordón, I will answer his call once again. Lord Mannalic means well, and I have to admire his conscientiousness, if nothing else."

Lord Fordón scowled and muttered to himself. "Valar protect us from Lord Mannalic's 'conscientious' imagination. That mad-man should save it all up and write it down in a book, not trouble _us_ with it…"

"Again, thank you, Lord Fordón, for those _very_ clearly expressed sentiments," Thengel said, his voice strained but polite.

"I will take care of this matter, my Lord, do not trouble yourself, or the Council about it," Captain Anborn reassured.

Everyone seemed ready to except Anborn's offer, but the King shook his head. "No Anborn, not this time. You've already taken that tedious journey twice this year—and it's only February. Even you must be growing tired of it, certainly your men are. No—" He held up his hand when Anborn tried to speak. "You have been patient, and willingly done this unpleasant task for a number of years, for which we are all thankful. But you shall not go this time." The men around the table glanced nervously at each other, wondering which one of them could have fallen under the king's displeasure enough to merit this kind of punishment. "I will go this time."

All heads shot up at this announcement, and all mouths fell silent. Fordón was the first to recover.

"You cannot be serious—Thengel-King!"

Thengel was finally beginning to lose his patience. "I am _quite_ serious. I intend to visit the Westfold, and I intend to do it within the week. Perhaps I may even have a serious…discussion with Lord Mannalic, and, subtly, suggest he check out his own problems more thoroughly before sending news here."

Speechlessly, Fordón's mouth opened and closed, making him look very much like a fish out of water. He finally stammered, "But why, my Lord? You must not place yourself in unnecessary danger." He nodded in Aragorn's direction. "After this latest attempt on Captain Thorongil's life, who knows what trouble you might meet up with on the road."

"I've hardly set foot out of Edoras for the past month. I intend to go." All the other men wisely fell silent, recognizing that the battle was already lost. "Théoden and I will be leaving in two days."

The mention of the Prince appeared to be too much for Fordón to handle, and he slumped back in his chair, exhausted from his attempts to make the king see reason.

At this point in the meeting, three or four servants opportunely took advantage of the lull in conversation to bring refreshments.

Thengel decided it was time to close the subject. "I think that concludes discussion on this topic." No one dared say otherwise. "We will take a short break to partake of refreshment, and then we will continue. There is still much to talk about."

Polite chatter filled what would have been an awkward silence. Heolstor turned to Thorongil, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, but smiling as he took another sip of wine.

"Well, the King does seem to be in a rather decisive mood this morning. Perhaps there is hope that all will yet be decided upon before toomany hours have passed." Heolstor took another sip of his wine._ The company does somewhat ruin its effect… _He was growing decidedly tired of having Thorongil's presence so nearby, reminding him of his failure.

Thorongil nodded. "Indeed. I think the King is just as anxious for matters to be settled quickly, as we are." He held his own goblet to his lips, taking a slow, thoughtful drink. He was growing decidedly tired of Heolstor's presence, he had to admit. _This is why I always avoid sitting next to him. I'll remember better next time. _It was a rather childish sentiment, granted, but a very _true _childish sentiment.

Watching his fellow Captain's face cloud over, Heolstor asked, "Is the wine to your liking, Captain Thorongil?" _Perhaps I could add a little hemlock, just for flavor? _

Thorongil quickly snapped out of his stupor. "The wine? Yes, it's very good." _Which is more than I can say for the company. Doesn't he know when to leave a man to his thoughts?_

"Good." _Here is one man I had better not leave to his thoughts for too long. Too much if his kind of thinking is what ruins well-laid plans like mine. _"What do you think the King will address next?" The question sounded slightly inane, even to his own ears, but it sent a chill up his spine, just watching the other man's eyes turn inwards in thought… What were those thoughts? How much did he suspect? He couldn't stand to watch those silver eyes flash with dangerous considerations and broodings.

Thorongil had to struggle not to look too sharply at Heolstor. What kind of a question was that? Was it simply a question of genuine interest? Or was it something else? _What "something else"? What could Captain Heolstor possibly be driving at? _And yet… Automatically, the question struck him as almost probing. He couldn't quite keep the suspicion entirely out of his voice, "How would I know?"

Heolstor flinched inwardly at the sudden suspicion that entered Thorongil's eyes. Here was the only man alive who would take such a simple question so seriously. He was getting far too used to intercourse with simple minds, and now he would have to work ten times harder to procure Thorongil's trust again. If he'd ever had it in the first place. "Oh, noting in particular. I was just wondering if you had any idea… I know Thengel confides in you often." _If only I could see into that mind of yours, what would I see? You're far too intelligent to live. There's only room for one of us in Rohan._

"When the King chooses to 'confide' in me, I generally take the conversation into my _confidence_, and do not share it around like a scandalous bit of gossip." Before he could help it, the rude comment had slipped out. And, he realized, he didn't really want to take it back. _How will you respond to _that_, Captain Heolstor?_

Heolstor felt his smiles coming to a desperate depletion, but he managed a weak one nonetheless. "Of course not!" He toned down the too-cheerful response, with second, "Of course not… Forgive me, I didn't mean to pry, or make you feel uncomfortable." _I mean to do far worse when I'm through with you. _"Of course you must keep your confidences, I was only curious as to what the plans for the day might be." Deciding that the situation called for another smile, he begrudgingly added one on to the end his apology.

Despite his previous disparaging thoughts towards Heolstor, the other Captain seemed genuinely repentant now, and Thorongil couldn't help but feel a small pang of guilt, albeit a _very_ small one. He glanced briefly at Heolstor. Was it just his imagination, or was his smile beginning to look rather strained? _And why shouldn't it? After such a rude comment he's liable to be a little put off, isn't he?_ "No, no need to apologize…" His diplomatic habits asserted themselves automatically. "I spoke hastily, without thinking." He took a sip of wine to cover his sudden embarrassment at his own outburst.

"Never mind, Captain, I understand. All our tempers our bound to be little short by the end of this meeting." Heolstor's own diplomatic training also followed suit, sliding easily into place over his feelings of detestation. He watched Thorongil take a measured draft of wine. _Oh gods, just let him_ choke_…_

The gods, however, did not seem to be in an obliging mood, and Thorongil drained his glass without coming to any harm. Before they could continue their delightful conversation, Silfren was standing again, directing everyone's attention back to the head of the table.

And so the Council continued. And continued…

Heolstor shifted in his chair and repressed all thoughts concerning his opponent. There would be some serious planning to do before this night was over, and one particularly troublesome Marshal to get rid of.

Thorongil shifted in his own chair, accepting a glass of cool water from one of the passing servants. Yes, dehydration and tiredness could definitely play tricks with the mind… Lord Heolstor, plotting? He must be going insane.

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**To be continued…**

**Thanks to all those who reviewed! Next chapter should be up next week, Friday or Saturday, as usual. Reviews are much appreciated. ;-)**


	6. False Reality

**_See first chapter for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes. _**

**A/N: Well, in this chapter, we have a little bit of Morwen/Thengel fluff at the beginning (though, hopefully, it'll explain a few things), and at the end some..._not _so fluffy material, that should explain even more. Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 6: False Reality**

The full moon was so bright it illuminated nearly the entire garden in an ethereal glow. It was cold, but Morwen didn't care. She'd always loved cold weather, and with her dark hair pulled around her shoulders, she was able ward off some of the late-February chill.

Long hair could be frustrating, at times, but it certainly had its uses, she thought, with a small smile. As her eyes came to rest on the brush that sat next to her on the bench, her smile faded. Then again, long hair also had its trials. Its very _painful_ trials, she concluded, wincing at the mere thought of trying to unravel the snarls that she'd acquired over the course of the day. The grass-scented breezes of Rohan felt good against your face, but they took their toll in other ways. _That's what braids are for… _her thoughts supplied in a cocky, self-mocking voice. She sighed heavily, considering cutting her hair for the thousandth time, and, for the thousandth time, pushing the thought away with revulsion.

There was nothing for it. The longer she waited, the more she was tempted simply to leave the knots in. She knew the pain that would result in the morning would be even worse than that that she'd have to suffer tonight. And, if she did nothing at all, then soon she'd be mistaken for a Dunlending and locked in the dungeons. The image of that generally ill-kempt race was enough incentive to start.

She tried to run her fingers through her hair, but they caught before they'd gone half-way. How was it that the Rohirrim managed to keep their long hair in a state of only _slight _entanglement? Many of the women had hair scarcely shorter than hers, but you never caught them wrestling with a brush. Even the men of this country seemed to have learned the art, and she could barely imagine them _ever _so much as _touching _a brush. She, on the other hand, was constantly battling just to keep her hair from becoming a bird's-nest.

Enough procrastinating. Just _do _it. Eyeing the brush with a scowl, she pulled her hair over her shoulder, resigning herself to the painful process that lay before her. But before she could even snatch the comb up off the bench, a large hand ensnared her own. She looked up into the sparkling brown eyes of her husband.

"It's freezing out here, Morwen. Why don't you come inside?"

"It's not that cold, and in a moment I'll be plenty warm." She took up the brush with a sullen expression. "Don't wait up for me, I'll probably be out here battling with my hair all night."

Thengel shook his head in amusement. "You know, Morwen, you could have one of the servants help you."

Morwen gave an unladylike snort. "What? You mean ask Feorh, and have my hair ripped out by the roots? I'd sooner cut it."

"Well, there is always that option…"

"No there isn't." Her voice dared him to even look at a scissor. "I haven't had my hair cut since I was a child, and I don't intend to have it cut now."

"And for that I'm very glad, my dear. I wouldn't have it any other way."

Morwen turned her head to shoot him suspicious glance, and moved to bring the brush to her hair. However, Thengel took her hand and removed the brush from her fingers before she could begin. She would have turned to give him an even more suspicious glance, but he guided her head to look forward with his other hand. She felt his cape, as he gently wrapped it around her shoulders and, with a shiver, realized just how cold she'd become. His warm, calloused hand brushed her cheek as he drew her hair back over her shoulder.

"Allow me, my Lady."

And she did. She couldn't help it. It felt so good, as he began to run the brush through the very tips of her hair, gradually, gently working upwards. With each rhythmic stroke, she felt herself relaxing a little more. The same strong hands that had brushed many a horse, capably undid each knot and snarl with unexhausted patience.

"I'm beginning to envy your horse…" she said lightly.

Thengel chuckled. "I just hope my horse doesn't get jealous, now that I'm paying more attention to you. I'm going to need his good will for the trip."

Morwen tensed. "The trip?"

"Don't act so surprised, Morwen, you knew I was planning something."

"I knew you were beginning to get that _look _in your eyes."

"What look?"

"The same one you've been wearing for the last two weeks. The one that means you're planning something insane."

"Oh, that one."

"Yes, _that _one. What crazy scheme have you come up with this time?"

"Morwen…" His voice was soothing, but slightly reproachful, as he ran the brush through her hair, adding extra care to his touch.

She couldn't help but melt a bit, under his gentle touch and sincere voice. With a sigh, she released the frustration from her tone, and rephrased the question. "Well, where are you going, then?"

"To the Westfold, to have a talk with Lord Mannalic."

"What? I thought Captain Anborn was just there a few weeks ago."

"He was, but—"

"But Mannalic already has a new complaint," Morwen finished for him dryly.

"Precisely. I fear he needs something more than the patient reassurances of Captain Anborn. Anborn has done his best, but I think Lord Mannalic is getting a bit frantic."

"Well then _let _him be frantic." Morwen crossed her arms resentfully, pulling Thengel's cape closer around her shoulders. "He's done nothing but complain ever since he was put in charge of that part of the Westfold. I was under the impression that he _became_ frantic some _years _ago."

Thengel had to struggle to keep his voice serious. "Yes, Morwen, he has been rather…anxious ever since the duty was appointed to him. But I think you do him wrong by saying he 'complains'. I believe he is seriously concerned for the well-being of the people under his jurisdiction, even if he is overly paranoid in his response to every rumor of danger."

Morwen was already beginning to feel a twinge of guilt for her outburst. Lord Mannalic might be more then a little paranoid, but Thengel was right, she'd met the man, and he certainly appeared to be genuinely worried. Her voice softened. "I know, but I do get tired of listening to new reports from the Westfold. It seems hard to believe that oneman could possibly worry about so many different things."

Thengel stopped brushing her hair for a moment. "Well, I shall see if I can put Lord Mannalic's mind more at ease, and perhaps win Anborn a well-deserved break from his journeys there." Thengel chuckled. "For, if I don't put a stop to them soon, I fear his men will revolt, despite their loyalties to their Captain."

"Although they are no less loyal to their King than their Captain, I fear you may be right," Morwen said softly.

A comfortable pause entered the conversation, and Thengel resumed brushing Morwen's hair.

Morwen allowed an unseen smile to linger on her face. The Westfold. That wasn't so horrible, or drastic. A few of days' journey there, a couple days once he reached it, and then a few more days back. A matter of two weeks at the very most. Not bad at all. Talking to Lord Mannalic would be a simple matter of diplomacy, with hardly a chance of danger. All things considered, Thengel was behaving quite sanely and reasonably. She could quell her anxiety for a week or so, and then he would be home again.

However, as she was contenting herself with these thoughts, the silence stretched on. After a few more moments had passed, Morwen was beginning to feel apprehensive when Thengel didn't say anything more. The silence continued, becoming less and less comfortable, and increasingly _un_comfortable for Thengel. She could feel his trepidation as an almost tangible object. If she hadn't been a "Lady" she might have cursed. Of course there was something more. How could she have assumed it was _that _simple?

"What haven't you told me?" she asked bluntly.

"What do you mean, I haven't—"

"Don't stall, just tell me. You're killing me with suspense. Out with it. Now."

Thengel cleared his throat, and the strokes of the brush strokes became a little harried. "Morwen I…" He took a deep breath, and said quickly, "I'm taking Théoden with me."

For a full minute, all Morwen could do was sit in stunned silence. Even in all her worst-case-scenarios she'd never thought of this. Anger and fear battled for dominance over her emotions. In the end, her voice came out a mixture of panicked fury. "No, Thengel, if you want to throw yourself in harm's way needlessly that's one thing, but I won't let you take our son along and put him in danger as well."

Thengel flinched. He should have expected this reaction. "Morwen…" He set down the brush, and stroked a strand of hair away from her face. She pushed his hand away. Time for drastic measures. Swiftly walking around the bench, he came and sat down next to her. "Morwen, please…" Turning her face away stubbornly, she refused to look at him.

"Thengel, there are just too many risks!" Trying desperately to ease the panic for her voice, Morwen clung to every logical excuse she could think of. "You intend to take him now, when things are so dangerous? Thorongil was nearly killed, and no one has a clue _why_. There are spies, and conspiracy at work, you said so yourself."

"Yes, I did say so. Councilor Silfren believes there is cause for us to worry, but…"

"Then why do you insist upon going in the first place, much less putting Théoden in danger?" Morwen pleaded, finally turning to face him.

"Morwen, there _is_ danger. I would never try to hide that fact from you, or try to leave without your approval. But I don't think you understand, in full, how things are. The danger is _here_ in Edoras—in Meduseld. If there is a conspiracy then, as ironic as it my seem, the safest place may be _outside _these walls." Thengel looked solemnly into her eyes, waiting patiently until she met his gaze. He took one of her hands, and spoke earnestly, and firmly. "I would _never _put Théoden in danger, or risk my life, needlessly. I promise you that." He pressed gently, "You know that."

Morwen closed her eyes tightly. She knew he spoke the truth, but that didn't make it easier on her heart, knowing that she would be left behind to worry, and wait, and wonder. "Then let me come with you." It was out before the thought had even fully formed in her mind.

Thengel sighed. "There is nothing I would like better than to have you, and Théoden, both with me."

"But you can't."

"No, I need you here. Morwen…" His voice became even more earnest, if that were possible. "I have thought long and hard about this. Forgive me for not consulting you earlier, my mind has been much preoccupied of late… I know this comes as somewhat of shock, but please, you must trust me."

"Of course I trust you." She opened her eyes again, looking evenly into his. "Go on, I'm listening."

The tension in Thengel's face eased considerably. "You must stay, my love, because I need someone here to observe while I'm gone."

She frowned. "Observe?"

"Yes."

"Observe _what_?"

"Observe any spies or conspiracies."

Morwen narrowed her eyes at Thengel, searching for any teasing sparkle in his eyes, and finding none. "You're serious? You want meto sneak around Meduseld looking for spies."

"No, I don't want you to do any _sneaking_. As a matter of fact, I think it would be far better if you avoided openly showing any sign that you suspect anything is amiss. However, if things unfold as I think they will, I don't think you'll have to do much sneaking."

"What do you mean?"

"If there _is _something going on, then the perpetrators are likely to take advantage of my absence to get very busy. So far, I haven't been able to figure much out, but with you, and Thorongil, keeping your eyes open for any signs, and looking in the right places, you may just see something worthwhile."

She raised a slender eyebrow meaningfully. "Thorongil is on _leave_. _Strictly _on leave."

Thengel put his head to one side. "Oh, is he now?"

Morwen shook her head warningly. "I meant what I said the other night, and you promised you'd make him rest. You agreed that it was important."

"I know, and I'm not about to break my promise, or let him break his to me. But come now, surely you do realize that if he doesn't have somethingconstructive to do, he'll probably end up doing something…"

"Insane?"

Thengel smiled. "Exactly. I don't want him to injure himself further by physical exertion, but let the poor captain have something to keep his mind busy. I don't think I can spare his mind from service, in any case. I haven't asked him yet, but I would feel much better knowing he was keeping an eye this situation, as well as on you."

Morwen briefly considered giving her husband a hard time about thinking she needed someone to "keep an eye" on her, but decided against it. Thengel was serious, and this whole matter was not something to be taken lightly. In addition, the thought of Théoden leaving still weighed heavily on her.

Thengel continued, "Besides, if I reassign Thorongil to the post of 'Royal Body-Guard' in my absence, you can personally make sure he doesn't overtax himself, and it will give the two of you ample opportunity to discuss anything unusual. I've informed him of my suspicions already, so he will be well equipped to advise you."

For the first time during their conversation, Morwen found herself whole-heartedly agreeing with Thengel's decision. Thorongil, even in the relatively few years they'd known him, had almost automatically filled a gap in the royal family. Théoden looked upon him as an uncle, and to Morwen and Thengel he'd become a friend nearly as close as a brother. In his quiet, unobtrusive manner, he seemed to have taken on the role without even realizing it.

The thought of his sturdy, dependable presence served to ground her. Somehow, knowing that he would be there to oversee things made the whole situation feel suddenly more secure.

Thengel watched the emotions flicker across his wife's face with no small amount of worry. If Morwen truly didn't feel like she could handle this, he would not leave her here alone. Fear had never been one of her chief emotions, and even now he knew it was not for herself that she feared.

Morwen could feel Thengel's eyes watching her carefully. She knew what he was looking for, hoping to see on her face, but she couldn't completely erase the fear from her voice. "He's just so young…" she said, almost in a whisper.

Thengel knew who she was talking about. "I know Théoden is still very young, but he is growing up more quickly, I think, than either of us give him credit for." He gave a smile, not completely devoid of melancholy. "Why, wasn't it just the other night he told us to quit tucking him in, because he was a 'warrior' now?"

Morwen sighed. "Yes. He's always acted about two years older than he really is."

"And you know how crushed he would be if I didn't take him with. I promised him this for a birthday present. I can't break my word to him."

"Yes."

"I _will_ keep him safe."

"I know."

This time, when Thengel's fingers touched her face, she didn't push them away, or turn her face away. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, gently pulling her back to rest against him.

"The unattainable but much-sought-after Lady Steelsheen. More beautiful than any rose in the valley Lossarnach," he whispered in her ear, teasingly, but at the same time entirely in earnest.

Morwen rested her head against his chest, the words bringing a nostalgic smile to her lips. "You were so incorrigibly poetic back then. You still remember saying that?"

"How could I forget? It was in Lossarnach, when I was still trying to woo you, and you were playing hard to get…"

"I was _not_!" she exclaimed, in laughing indignation.

"Well, I certainly never thought I had any chance against so many eager suitors."

"What 'eager suitors'?"

"Don't you remember? There were dozens of them. I had my reasons for being so 'incorrigibly poetic,' I'll have you know—and desperation was _key_."

"You always did exaggerate."

"Not about your beauty."

A second pause came, this time not at all awkward or uncomfortable for either of them.

Morwen inhaled a breath of the cool evening air. "If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine I'm back vale of Imloth Melui, when the wild roses are just beginning to bloom… When I agreed to marry you."

Thengel grinned. "But only, I think, because I promised to transport half-a-dozen of those wild rose bushes with us, wherever we went, so you'd always have a small part of Lassarnach with you."

Morwen smiled too. When news had reached them that Fengel was dead, Thengel had been called to return home to Rohan to take the throne after his father. They had both left Gondor with much sadness and reluctance. But Thengel, true to his promise as always, had indeed taken a half-a-dozen of the wild roses from the vale of Imloth Melui with them, and made her this garden. It had been a struggle, at times, to readapt the plants to a new climate, but under her watchful care they had at last flourished.

At thought of Gondor, a sudden feeling of home-sickness put a stop to any witty responses she might have come up with in response to Thengel's last statement. Instead, all she could manage was a small, annoyingly feeble-sounding, "Thank you."

"No need for that… You know I love the sight and smell of these roses as much as you. And you've worked hard to make them grow here."

"Yes, and it was worth it."

Unexpectedly, a soft footstep sounded behind them, and a small voice said, "I think…I've changed my mind."

They turned, and there, looking very young and small in his long white night-shirt, was Théoden.

"Théoden…" Quickly removing Thengel's thick cape from her own shoulders, she hurried forward to drape it around his shivering form. "I thought you were in bed sleeping."

"I was in bed, but I can't sleep." Théoden looked up almost shyly at the worried faces of his parents. "I think I've changed my mind about being tucked in…" Seasoned warrior of six he might be, but he was beginning to wish that being grown up didn't involve being _quite_ so brave.

Thengel and Morwen exchanged smiling glances.

Thengel crouched down next to his son, holding out his arms. "Even warriors need to be tucked in every once in a while."

Théoden grinned sleepily. "Really?" He wrapped his arms around his father's neck and allowed himself to be picked up.

"Really," Thengel assured him.

Reaching Théoden's bed, he carefully deposited his precious burden onto the mattress as Morwen removed the cloak and pulled the blankets up around him.

She brushed a strand of blond hair back from his forehead, and planted a kiss in its stead. "There, is that better, my little warrior?"

Théoden nodded, his expression becoming even sleepier as a long yawn escaped him. As his eyes began to droop shut, Thengel laid a kiss on his small forehead as well.

"Sleep well, my son."

And Théoden did, falling fast asleep with a contented smile still on face.

**---o--oOo--o---**

Eothald sat down hesitantly. Absently, his fingers began to fidget nervously with the hem of his tunic.

"Good evening," Heolstor greeted from his own seat, not having deigned to rise from his seat when the other man had entered.

After the long council meeting of the morning, and the even more tiring mental skirmish between himself and Thorongil, he'd found himself sorely depleted in many ways. For hours, he'd prowled his room, face unveiled from its social façade. He always found that a few hours of good sulking did wonders for his outlook, and gave his social appearance new energy. Now, with confidence, he once again donned his compulsory pleasant smile.

He watched the agitated figure in front of him like a cat watches its prey—albeit a very clever, all-knowing, and above all very _patient _cat. The cat did have its limits, but it would be hard to drive it to them. Heolstor had long ago classified the man before him as a fool with no backbone. A fool, but nonetheless a most opportune and useful fool. As matter of fact, he probably could not have come up with a more useful fool if he'd hand-picked and created Eothald specifically for his purpose.

"Some wine, Lord Eothald?"

Lord Eothald just about jumped at the simple, quietly-put question. He stammered a quick, "Ah…yes…yes, I'd like some wine."

Heolstor poured a goblet and handed it to him. "A very fine vintage, don't you think?"

Eothald was far too nervous to properly discuss the quality of the wine, but he was quick to agree. He was always quick to agree with anyone he considered smarter than himself, and since he considered a great many people smarter than himself, he was constantly agreeing. "Yes, a…very fine vintage."

Heolstor had to work to keep the disgust from his features as the other man inhaled his wine, taking compulsive gulps of it, as if he were merely consuming, rather than tasting it. Such a waste. He savored a mouthful of his own wine before continuing. "I'm so glad you could join me this evening."

"Thank you, Captain Heolstor, for inviting me again." Eothald looked less than confident about his situation, but his voice showed genuine appreciation of having been invited.

"Oh no, it is _you_, as brother by marriage to the King, who does _me _honor with your presence."

Again, Eothald looked less than confident, but truly flattered by his words. "I am…honored that you think so." He took another gulp of his wine.

"I have much to discuss with you tonight. We must exchange ideas on…the plan," Heolstor said casually, gauging the other man's reaction with a practiced eye. When he noticed Eothald's increased agitation, he halted and dropped the subject for the moment. "But before we begin talking on such serious matters, perhaps you'd like some more wine?" Without waiting for an answer, he rose to fill his glass. "There, take your time Lord Eothald, the night is still young, and we have many hours in which to talk…"

Eothald seemed to calm at this, and as he took a few more draughts of his wine, his agitation decreased visibly.

Heolstor smiled contently, and broached the subject again. "_Now_… to the matter at hand. You are a man of great intelligence—tell me, what do you think of the King's plans to leave for the Westfold?"

"I think…I think that…" Eothald trailed off, his eyes clouding slightly.

Heolstor cleared his throat after a few seconds. "Well, shall I tell you what I think?" At Eothald's slight nod, he continued in an authoritative voice, "_I _think that this is the opportunity we've been waiting for."

"The opportunity we've been waiting for…?" Eothald repeated in soft, uncertain voice.

"_Yes_. Precisely. With the King absent, we may work more freely. What do you think our course of action should be?" Heolstor eyed Eothald scrutinizingly, as if he actually expected an intelligent response.

The glazed look lifted a little from Eothald's eyes as he focused on the question. "Our course of action must be…to…make sure everything goes…smoothly."

Heolstor brightened, as if it was the most brilliant course of action he'd ever heard. "Yes, of course! Well put my Lord. We must indeed make things run smoothly, and watch proceedings carefully. Once you are in charge, you can do a great deal of good."

"In charge?" Eothald asked in bewilderment.

"Yes, my Lord," Heolstor talked, as if explaining to a child—which wasn't far from Eothald's mental capacity at the moment. "Yes, when Thengel leaves, you will be the one he puts in charge of things."

Eothald frowned for the first time during their conversation. "How…do you know…this?"

Heolstor smiled good-naturedly. "Ah, but haven't you learned about that yet? I make it my _business _to know about things like this—after all, as your friend, I always must look out for your interests. I am confident that the King will put you in charge, and then you can do a great deal of good for Rohan. When the King returns, he will be very pleased with you."

"A great deal of good?"

All Eothald seemed to be capable of now was asking questions, and repeating answers. But Heolstor still spoke patiently, and assumingly, always emphasizing his first word of encouragement. "_Yes_. You can do a lot of good once you are in charge! I know you, and your desire to serve Rohan… You will be a much loved King when Thengel is gone…"

"When Thengel is gone?"

Heolstor nodded. "Some day he will die, and then you are next in line, until Théoden is old enough to rule. Remember?"

Eothald mimicked him, nodding his head slowly. "Yes…I will rule…once Thengel is…gone."

"_Yes_. And I will always be there to help you, to guide you…"

"You will…guide me…"

"_Yes_. I will always be there at your side, to help you…"

"Help me…"

Eothald's eyes began to droop, and Heolstor gradually turned the conversation in another direction. "_Yes_. I will help you. But you must help me a little, too."

"How can I…help you?"

"Oh, it's nothing too great. You must simply listen to me, and take my advice."

"Of course I will…you have been…my friend."

Heostor smiled, as bits and pieces of previous conversations began to drift into the man's answers. So he _was _remembering everything. "_Yes_. I am your friend, and always will be, if you count _me _as _your _friend."

"You are…my friend…"

"Thank you. And now, my _friend_, you are beginning to look very tired. I think it's time you found your bed."

"Yes, I'm…tired…suddenly."

"Come then." Heolstor rose, and helped Eothald from his seat, practically carrying him to the door. He opened the door, and called for a guard.

One of the palace guards soon arrived, and at sight of the slumped Eothald, he immediately grinned. "Ah, so Lord Eothald has been at it again?"

Heolstor smiled. "Yes, I'm afraid the vintage was just bit too powerful for him. I really should have stopped him sooner."

The guard respectfully smothered a chuckle. "Here, would you like me to take him to his room?"

"I would appreciate that greatly. Thank you."

The guard quickly transferred the almost unconscious, drowsily babbling man to his own shoulder, and started off down the hall. Heolstor closed the door, and leaned against the wall with an exhausted, but satisfied smile.

Walking across the room to a tall cabinet, he withdrew a key the inside pocket of his tunic and unlocked it. Once again, his hand reached into his pocket, this time withdrawing a small vial of white powder. He set it on one of the many shelves that lined the cabinet, next to a line of similar vials and jars, filled with different colored liquids and powders. The self-satisfied look settled more deeply into his features, as he relocked the cabinet and sat down in his chair.

As his own power over Lord Eothald's will grew, the only outward sign was Lord Eothald's growing reputation for being unable to handle his liquor. Little did the general public, or Lord Eothald, know the serious truth.

Poison.

Long had he worked to perfect the art, learning all the symptoms, fatal amounts, and appearances of poisonous herbs and plants—and even occasionally learning the antidotes. Working with poison was always so rewarding, and so initially simple to use. It made murder almost too easy. You could get nearly any desired affect from them too, not merely a quick and clean death. The death could be painful or immediate, prolonged or gradual. Or, if death was not your aim, there was still many useful purposes one could use smaller amounts for.

It was amazing, he thought with a touch of humor, how a simple dose of Metalen could turn nearly anyone into nothing more than a mindless dog, ready to be given orders, or beaten into submission. Metalen played with the mind, lulling its will to sleep, leaving the person with hardly any thoughts of his or her own.

In the first place, Lord Eothald wasn't exactly known for his forceful or dominating personality. Coupling that with mind-numbing drugs, over the course of a number of "conversations" he'd become little more than a puppet to Heolstor's will. Of course, after a good night's sleep, the initial drunken effect wore off quite a bit. In the morning, his conscious mind only remembered their meetings in part; however, his subconscious mind was a whole different matter. With each use, his persistent urgings on different matters left ideas, and firm seeds implanted in Eothald's mind. It hadn't taken long for Lord Eothald to bend to his will, and "voluntarily" join forces with him. Now it took only a few smaller doses every once in a while to keep him under his control.

There was one of his many problems settled. Lord Eothald—brother by law to Thengel through his marriage to the King's late sister—was now _his. _If the King were to _unfortunately _die, Eothald, as the next male in line, would inherit the throne until Théoden came of age. And if Théoden were never to make it to manhood… He wasn't quite sure, as yet, exactly how he would best use Eothald, but he would certainly have his considerable uses in the time to come.

He settled into his chair, chess board before him, for another couple hours of hard thinking.

**

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**

**To be continued...**

**Feedback is absolutly priceless to me. I haunt the computer for hours after posting, just waiting to hear readers' thoughts on new chapters... (That was just another cleverly-phrased, and subtle reminder to review--pretty please?) **

**Next chapter should be in a week, 'round the same time. ;-)**


	7. Indescribable Fears

_**See first chapter for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes. **_

**A/N: Well, finally, alerts appear to be up again, thank God... (Meh. I'm annoyingly dependant on those things to keep me updated on everything here.) I think I've responded to all of you, but if I missed one, please don't hesitate to let the absent-minded author know. ;)**

**Since I don't want to say anything spoiler-ish beforehand here, I'll have some additional notes at the end…**

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**Chapter 7: Indescribable Fears **

"Of course I will do it, your Majesty." Thorongil strove to keep the child-like excitement out of his voice. Although he wouldn't have admitted to the fact under torture, lately he'd begun to panic at the mere thought of being left in Meduseld with truly _nothing _to do.

"I've already talked to Morwen, and I think she is relieved to have your support. She is very…anxious about all this." Thengel hesitated, once again coming close to abandoning the entire plan for the sake of his wife.

"Well, she would be insane notto worry. I worry too, my Lord. I know this may be the only way to bring this to a head quickly, and on our terms, but it does have its risks."

"Yes, I know. Unfortunately, I can't think of any other better plan, or one less dangerous." Thengel looked sternly at his captain. "I want you to promise me, Thorongil, on your honor, that if there is any sign of danger you will get Morwen out of the way. I won't risk her for this."

"I understand. You have my word."

"And you have another promise you've already given me. I don't release you from that." Thengel put a hand on his shoulder. "Get some well-deserved rest, my friend. I know I shouldn't have given you this assignment, especially not at the last minute like this, but I can't think of anyone that I would trust more for this."

"It is well, my Lord."

From the way an impish grin was struggling to spread over his captain's face, Thengel knew without a doubt that it was indeed "well". He shot Thorongil a look of exasperation. The captain smiled back innocently. "Thorongil, I mean it. Don't overdo anything."

"Overdo it, my Lord?"

"Don't act so innocent. If you're not completely rested and recovered from that wound by the time I get back, I may yet carry out my threat and lock you in the dungeons. The invitation still stands."

"But my Lord, I'm already recovered from my wound," Thorongil protested, still smiling.

"Don't push your luck, Captain. Watch over Morwen, and don't physically overexert yourself. That is not a _suggestion_, it is an _order_."

Thorongil bowed deferentially. "It had never so much as crossed my mind to do otherwise, Thengel-King."

"No, I thought not," Thengel responded wryly.

They turned as footsteps echoed down the halls of the long throne room. Soon, lined up in front of him with rather somber looks on their faces, were his other two Marshals, Anborn and Heolstor, along with Counselor Silfren and Morwen. By Morwen's side, Théoden stood in enforced stillness. From the way she was clutching the young prince's hand tightly at her side, Thengel knew she was still reluctant to part with her son, despite her agreement with his reasoning. Théoden himself, apart from the slightly pained expression he gave his mother as he tried to free his hand, looked quite cheerful. Thengel looked from his son's cheerful face back up at the grim faces of the adults.

"This isn't a funeral, so stop acting like it's one," Thengel muttered in annoyance.

"Nonsense, your Majesty," Silfren stepped forward to his side. "They are merely giving us what is commonly called 'a tearful farewell'. And as for me, I am simply taking a moment to say goodbye to Meduseld one last time..."

Thengel scowled. "You act as if I were sentencing you to death by bringing you along."

Silfren smiled. "Of course not, my Lord. We are all being a little paranoid, I suppose."

"Well, finally _someone_ admits it," Thengel muttered, stepping forward to say farewell to his other two captains.

Anborn opened his mouth, his face uncertain. "Are you sure about this, my Lord? I would still be glad to undertake the journey myself…"

"For the last time, Anborn, _no_." Thengel looked sternly at the captain.

Anborn glanced down, face flushing slightly in embarrassment. He hadn't meant to make the offer to go to the Westfold _again_, but he was concerned, and it had just slipped out. "Forgive me, my Lord I—"

"Don't apologize. Thank you, my friend, but I think you're becoming just a little too attached to Lord Mannalic. It's my turn now." Thengel smiled warmly at Anborn, turning his gaze to Heolstor. "You take care as well, Captain Heolstor," he said, grasping the man's hand. He looked next to Morwen, nearly flinching at what he expected to find there. However, her face did not portray the fear he'd anticipated. She held herself tall and even had a smile on her face when he came to stand in front of her. Still, he felt the need to reassure her. "Don't worry, my dear, I won't take any longer than necessary. We'll both be back before you've even had a chance to miss us."

"Why do I find that hard to believe?" Morwen swallowed the lump in her throat, feeling ridiculous about her own uneasiness. They would only be gone a short while, she reminded herself sternly.

Thengel saw her struggle, and hastened forward to embrace her. He spoke softly into her ear, "Be strong, dearest… Time will pass quickly, and before long we'll be safely home again." He squeezed her tightly before finally releasing her. Then, before his will could falter, he stepped away from her.

Putting more strength into his voice than he realized he possessed, he said to the company at large, "Now, there is just one more thing I would like to address. Is Lord Eothald coming?"

As if on cue, another pair footsteps echoed down the hall, and a very haggard-looking Eothald emerged from the shadows. "I'm sorry I'm late… I didn't realize the time…" he said in a hoarse voice.

"Never mind that now, Lord Eothald." Thengel smiled kindly at the tired-looking man.

Although no one said anything, it was plain what everyone was thinking: another late night of drinking for Lord Eothald. At least, it seemed to be apparent to everyone but Eothald, he was apparently still too groggy to meet anyone's eyes.

"Are you…well?" Thengel asked with concern.

Finally, Eothald looked up, and gave a small chuckle. "Yes, I am well apart from a small hangover. Forgive me, Thengel, I don't know what I was thinking. I should know better by now. Still, I don't remember drinking _that _much… Forgive me, I know the duty you assign to me is not to be taken lightly at all. That was quite…stupid of me."

Thengel gave his nervous-looking brother-in-law another gentle smile. "All is well, Eothald. I think, for my sister's sake, I can forgive you one more night's carelessness. But remember your position while I'm gone. After Théoden you are next in line… Valar forbid that something should happen, but if it does you must be prepared." He put a hand on his shoulder. "Take care of Meduseld and the people with justice, brother."

Eothald swallowed hard, but nodded solemnly. "I will, Thengel-King, I swear it on my honor."

Thengel turned a formal face on the rest that were gathered before him. "Then you are all witnesses, that I leave Eothald to keep Edoras in my absence. Obey his commands as you would my own, and serve him well." With that duty over, Thengel turned to Théoden. "Come, my son, it's time we were on our way."

Morwen released Théoden's hand reluctantly, and watched him run off to stand—or rather _bounce_—between Thengel and Silfren. She watched his small, animated figure as it dashed down the stairs towards the stables, with Thengel and Silfren following at a slightly more dignified pace. She couldn't help but feel that he was too young to go on such a long trip. A ridiculous reason to rest all her anxiety upon, but it was the most logical reason she could see for her feelings.

She turned her back on the scene, her feet automatically treading the path that led to her room. Optimism seemed to be her best course, as she couldn't possibly change things now. There were few enough cheerful thoughts to grasp on to, but she clung to the hope that the journey would be _very_ short, and _extremely_ uneventful. As Thengel had said, they would be back before she'd had a chance to miss them. In her heart, however, she knew that the sentiment, however comforting, was already proven wrong.

**---o--oOo--o---**

Birds.

From every direction, their black-feathered bodies were entering the old barn. Through every crack and crevice they found their way, their wings beating the air, whipping the dust and hay into a frenzy.

From their various dejected positions, the four occupants of the dilapidated building rose to their feet. When the flurry of wings had finally stilled, nearly a dozen of the black birds lined the low rafters, or sat perched atop various piles of old hay or broken crates. The largest of these creatures hopped along the dirt floor directly up to the cluster of humans, cawing loudly.

One of the humans—a tall, lanky man, with stringy, and even lanker hair—stepped forward. "What have you got this time, bird?" He squatted low to the ground, reaching out slightly toward the bird.

The bird gave another caw, which, with the help a bit of imagination, sounded decidedly frustrated. Its faint, croaking voice said, "Meh-dal …"

The man scowled. "What do you need him for?" He eyed the small piece of parchment that was attached to the bird's leg by a piece of string. "Oh, you got a message for him? Come on, give it here."

"Meh-dal..." the bird repeated stubbornly, taking a hop backwards.

"Don't you start thinking on your own, you stupid animal. Give it here and I promise I won't pluck your feathers out and make you into a stew." There was a supportive burst of laughter from his three companions behind him. "Come on, bird…"

The black bird hesitated. "Food?" The monosyllabic word was pronounced with difficulty, but the question was clear.

"I don't have any food for dumb beasts," the man growled impatiently. "I don't have enough food for myself. Just give it here, and I won't eat _you_." He drew a small, roughly-made hatchet from his belt, handling it meaningfully.

The bird hesitated for another moment, before taking a cautious hop forward. Craning downward, its sharp beak easily cut the small thread that tied the piece of parchment to its foot, and let it fall the ground. The lanky man scrambled forward, his hand shooting out to grab it. As his fingers folded around it, the bird's neck shot out, his beak latching on to the man's forefinger. He shouted, jumping backwards nearly as quickly as he'd scrambled forward. His recovery was too slow, and he turned his furious gaze back to the bird just in time to see it, and the rest of the flock, lift their wings and swarm out of the windows in a final outbreak of flapping wings.

Cursing, he examined his bleeding finger for moment, before turning his attention back the piece of paper he still held in his hand. His three companions surrounded him as he unfolded it.

"What does it say, Gadog?" asked the shortest of the men.

"Shut up, Ivor!" growled another of the men, shoving the shorter man out of the way.

"Shut up yourself…" the short man muttered resentfully, but allowed himself to be shuffled to the side.

Nardeg peered over Gadog's shoulder, "What does it say, brother?" he demanded, in a tone that was anything but brotherly or merely inquiring.

Gadog glared at the other three men. "You know I can't read, so quit asking!"

The forth man spoke up loudly voice. "Well, if you can't read, Gadog, then why did you take it from the bird in the first place?" He looked around furtively, as if expecting the object of his next words to spring out of the rotting woodwork. "Mehdal will have our skins for that bit of stupidity on your part…"

Nardeg jumped to his brother's defense, unwilling to pass up the opportunity to fight, although he might have easily passed over the offence to his brother. He grabbed the man by his ragged shirt. "What was that you were saying, Hodash, about 'stupidity'?"

Apparently, Hodash was feeling the urge to display his _own _stupidity. "I was _saying _Mehdal will have our skins for the stupidity of your idiot of a brother!"

Just as Nardeg was about the throttle the man in his grasp, a new voice filled the barn with its authoritative timbre. "Put—him—down—Nardeg. Now."

The four men whirled around, Nardeg releasing Hodash with a push.

"What is this all about?" the newcomer inquired sharply.

"The black birds, Lord Mehdal… They came." Nardeg answered, with all the respect he could muster, which was little enough.

Mehdal surveyed the four men. Idiots one and all, he thought with annoyance. He shuddered at their stringy, greasy hair, their ragged, filthy clothes, and their dark, hallow-looking eyes. Thank the Valar he was only _half _Dunlending. As it was, he was loath to admit to even that percentage. Not for the first time—and certainly not the last—he cursed his ancestors for sentencing him to be forever bound to such a race. For sentencing him to be a half-breed, with the blood of the Wild Men of Dunland tainting him.

He addressed the four Wild Men, feeling the same anger he always felt when confronted with a reminder of his undesirable heritage. "Birds? They are notjust 'black birds' as you so quaintly put it—they are _Crebain_. And yes, there _is _a difference."

The four Wild Men—including the bold but stupid Nardeg—began to shift nervously from foot to foot.

"Well?" Mehdal demanded impatiently, "Why didn't you send for me immediately?" Since no answer was forthcoming, he asked even more impatiently, "I assumethey had a message of some sort, verbal or otherwise. Crebain do usually have a reason for their visits."

Gadog held out his hand, with the parchment in it, and Mehdal snatched it away. His eyes immediately saw the red dots that stained it.

"This is yourblood, I hope, not one of the Crebain's." He turned his gaze back to Gadog, who gave a grimace and held out his hand briefly, displaying his bleeding forefinger. Mehdal nodded. "Good. Get it into your thick skulls, if you can: the Crebain are not to be touched, ordered around, or generally harmed in any way. They carry our messages, and their loyalty is of the utmost importance. They are beasts, though more intelligent than most, and as such are incapable of treachery, but if they feel themselves threatened they will desert us, if only for self-preservation…" He allowed his voice to trail off, feeling, as he had on more than one occasion, the futility of such words in the presence of such idiots. They probably hadn't registered a single word he was saying. "As long as they are fed well, they should continue to faithfully carry our messages."

At this, the Dunlendings all ducked their heads, looking ridiculously sheepish.

"You _did _give them the food, didn't you?" It wasn't a question, so much as a threat. He knew the look on their faces, just as he knew them to be too dull-witted to ever think of doing anything like actually obeying orders for once—or, Eru forbid, _thinking _without guidance. He didn't make any pretences of being the world's cleverest man, but in comparison to _them _he felt himself become more vain each day.

Nardeg spoke again. "Why should we feed those…birds?"

Mehdal closed his eyes tightly, willing himself not to strangle them. "If you actually had a _brain _you might have actually _comprehended _what I just said!"

_They are necessary, they _are _necessary…_

He opened his eyes again. "How many times must I explain this…? The Crebainare our _friends_—at the moment. If we are meanto them by—let's say—withholding their food, they might decide to do something mean to _us_." He groaned inwardly, listening to his own voice pronounce the words as if he were addressing a two-year-old.

They stared back blankly at him.

"But I thought you just said they were dumb animals?" Ivor muttered.

"_You _are the dumb animals!" Mehdal yelled, losing his temper at last. Regaining just a modicum of his control, he barked a tight-lipped command. "Shut up, and sit down before I decide to feed the whole lot of you to those 'birds'." He felt some satisfaction as he watched the four men drop to the ground where they stood, raising a small cloud of dust. There were few advantages to watching incredibly stupid two-year-olds, but here was one, at least.

Blocking out their presence as best as he could, he opened the letter and read:

_Mehdal,_

_Captain Thorongil still lives. I must turn to a new plan. It will be challenging, and I will need both your brothers' help for a while yet. If my second plan should fail, I do have a third. However, I hope to get him out of the way as quickly as possible. My third plan will require you, and at least ten of your best men. The plan I attempt now is highly risky, so it may come down to that. _

_In any case, you _will _get your men out of Halodawn _now_. Lord Mannalic suspects your presence. You and all those idiots under your command have drawn attention to yourselves, and now Thengel is coming with a number of men to soothe_ _Mannalic's mind by investigating, and reassuring him that his fears are insubstantial. Don't provide the King with anything to worry about._

_Fortunately for you, the King's absence is profitable and useful to me at the moment. From now on, however, I would suggest you keep your men better hidden, and away from any villages—especially ones being governed by paranoid lords. _

_I don't care where you go, so long as you're within a couple hours' call from Edoras, but you must leave the very day you receive this. I want you far away from there by the time Thengel arrives. If this second plan to eliminate Thorongil should go awry, I will have to resort to plan three, where you and your ten best men come in. _

_Be prepared to move on my command. _

_-Heolstor_

Mehdal cursed loudly. So they had been spotted, then. He'd taken Lord Mannalic for a completely oblivious fool. Apparently, even oblivious fools couldn't help but notice Wild Men, or else this fool wasn't entirely oblivious. If Mannalic was as paranoid as Heolstor had said, then it would have taken a lot more stealth than his companions were capable of to hide their presence.

Of course he'd taken into consideration that fact about the Dunlendings, that was one of the reasons he'd chosen Halodawn for their hideout in the first place. He'd assumed that, even if suspicions were aroused by his coarse companions, any complaint from such an out-of-the-way village would be completely, or mostly, overlooked. Either that or, at the very most, be seen to by one of the Marshals, or someone farther down the chain of command. He certainly hadn't expected this kind of response.

And now Thengel was coming. He cursed again. Thengel himself was coming to investigate. It struck him as more than a little odd that the King of Rohan himself would come to investigate such a small crisis. Unless, of course, he didn't consider the rumors to be springing from such a "small" crisis. That idea gave him even more food for thought.

He looked back to the letter, searching for any clues from Heolstor. Naturally, none were to be found. Heolstor seemed to take some hidden pleasure in leaving him in doubt and trepidation. Perhaps it was some form of punishment for his carelessness—or rather, the Dunlendings' carelessness. After all, if the King really was coming to look into the matter, he was probably getting suspicious, and Heolstor would _not _be happy about that.

A number of minutes passed by as he continued to stand there, rooted to the spot. He wasn't particularly clever by any means, but he was meticulous and thorough in every aspect. Going through the same ritual he did every time he received orders, Mehdal carefully reread the letter, memorizing the information, and then crumpled the letter. He would burn it as soon as possible.

Finally, he became aware once again of the presence of the other men. Sighing heavily, he turned back to the four Dunlendings, who were still obediently sitting on the floor, although their faces held none-too-subtle signs of rebellion.

"Very well, you may get up now."

The Dunlendings scrambled to their feet, muttering.

"What does it say?" Hodash asked.

"What it says is none of your business. All you need to know is that Heolstor has, once again, given us orders, and that if you disobey _me _you will have to answer to _him_."

Mention of Heolstor was enough to subdue any more questions for a whole minute. Then Ivor dared the silence.

"But what are the orders?"

"The orders are to leave—today. We will head towards Edoras immediately, so prepare to travel."

**---o--oOo--o---**

Thengel closed his eyes briefly, inhaling the familiar, grass-scented breeze of the plains. The sun was bright and warm at his back, and temperature was perfect.

Three or four days' travel to Halodawn, and a pleasant stop in a quiet little town to soothe Lord Mannalic's fears. That half of the journey sounded easy enough, and quite enjoyable. Then, of course, there would be the four days' ride back again to Morwen, to soothe _her _fears.

The steady swaying of his horse's gait and the prattling sound of Théoden's voice finally broke through his thoughts. He forced the slight frown, which he wore so habitually when deep in his worries, to recede. Joining all his anxieties with Morwen's would not do any good. Besides, Thorongil would watch over her, and perhaps even find a way to distract her from her own worry. The captain was nothing, if not resourceful.

"How far is it?"

Thengel looked over at Théoden, forcefully focusing on his son. "Quite a ways, I'm afraid. I don't think we'll reach there in three days at this rate… We should make it by the afternoon of the fourth, though."

Théoden frowned. "Well why don't we go faster?" The young prince's excitement was nearly a tangible thing.

Thengel couldn't help but smile. Even when they'd started out, and he'd been presented with a small, good-natured mare, rather than a fiery young stallion, Théoden's excitement hadn't been swallowed in his disappointment. And now, after hours of riding—long past the time Thengel had expected his exhilaration to cool—Théoden continued to glow.

Théoden was looking down at his horse, still frowning just slightly. "I know she's just an old mare, but I think she still has some spirit in her, father—can't we gallop?" he asked, hopefully.

Thengel chuckled. "I think you're right about her, she probably would go her fastest, now she knows she has a warrior astride her." He had to think quickly for the right way to say this. Telling Théoden that he was far too young, and might very well end up falling off his horse if they went too fast, probably wasn't the best way to break it to him. "But do you really want to do that to your poor horse? She would do her best for you, but it would tire her out so quickly…"

Théoden pondered that for a moment. "No, I suppose I shouldn't do that to her…" He patted her neck in a disappointed gesture. "But if you'd only given me a true war horse, then we _really _could have galloped—and reached there in _two _days."

Thengel smiled. "Well, perhaps, in a little more time, I willget you a war horse of your very own. Thenwe will gallop. For now, you must practice your horsemanship."

Théoden grinned, sitting up a little straighter in his saddle. He could still hardly believe his father was actually allowing him to come with. He'd lost track of how many times he'd begged and pleaded to go along, only to be told time and time again that he was "too young". He'd come to dread those two words, that barred him from so much. How he longed to be a warrior like his father—like Thorongil and Araedhelm. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine himself atop that promised war-horse, leading men into battle…

He gazed up at the bright blue of the sky, seeking to cling to that illusion for as long as possible. Wispy clouds floated by on the light breeze…along with something else. Théoden narrowed his eyes as a flock of crows flew overhead. Or, at least, they _looked _like crows. As they drew closer, he noticed that they were rather larger than normal crows.

One of the birds, which appeared to be leading the others, cawed loudly. The rest of the flock replied in kind, filling the air with their noise. Then, as one body, they swerved away from the long file of horsemen, heading East.

Théoden turned in his saddle, following the swarm of black bodies with his eyes, until they were nothing but a black dot in the distance.

* * *

**To be continued…**

**A little about the Crebain: **I know I'm taking a few liberties with them, having them actually talk, since they don't actually audibly say words to Saruman in the movie, nor is there mention of how, _exactly, _they communicate in the books (that I could find). _However_, I'm assuming these are pretty smart "crows" (most of the birds of ME are). And, seeing how normal crows are highly intelligent, and can speak, solve problems, and associate words with things, I thought it wasn't a stretch to assume they could speak some Westron.

**Thank you, everyone, for the wonderful feedback! More, please? - pleading puppy-dog eyes - It's such a huge encouragement! **


	8. Much Ado About Something

_**See first chapter for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes. **_

**A/N: Since this is my story, I suppose a little self-advertising isn't totally out of place… -points to bio proudly- I finally updated it! On my revamped bio, you'll find a link to my new alternate account, where I've begun posting a story for a different fandom. :) Also, check out the account of my wonderful sister-beta (Imbecamiel—she's under my favorite authors) if you get the chance. She's an excellent writer in her own right, though she's constantly forgetting to mention it. I just thought I'd mention it for her. -g-**

**Thank you for all the lovely comments, they really keep me going! **

* * *

**Chapter 8: Much Ado About Something **

"Lady Morwen?"

Morwen turned at the voice to see Thorongil hurrying down the hall after her. She smiled.

"I'm not going far, Captain, just to the stables."

"May I join you?" he asked, catching up with her.

"Of course, if you wish."

She continued on, with him walking at her side, and slightly behind. That position, she thought with amusement, was going to become permanent if Thengel didn't hurry back to relieve him of his duty. Since the day he'd left—four days ago now—Thorongil had appointed himself not only her protector, but her shadow as well. Either he was taking his orders to "watch" her to the extreme, or he was rapidly becoming bored of his steady diet of inactive court life. It was probably a mixture of both.

However, she wasn't about to complain. With Théoden's exuberant presence so markedly missing, she felt far too restless staying in her rooms alone, so she usually ended up drifting wherever her whim took her. With Thengel gone, and his warnings about "spies and conspiracies" still crowding her mind, Thorongil's companionship was more than welcome as she wandered about aimlessly. What she found astonishing was his dogged determination to keep up with her, despite her seemingly pointless schedule.

"Aren't you getting a little tired of this, Thorongil?" she asked abruptly, as they descended the steps of Meduseld at an unhurried pace.

Thorongil looked up at her, his weathered face full of confusion. "Tired of what?"

She laughed. "Let me rephrase the question: aren't you getting a little tired of watching me all day long as I wander about doing nothing?"

"No, not really…"

She laughed again. "I never took _you _for a liar."

"I'm not."

"Come, surely you can't be _enjoying _following me around like this," she insisted teasingly.

At that, he smiled in return. "Well, although being your bodyguard doesn't involve quite the same element of…excitement as riding out with the soldiers, it does have its merits, I suppose."

"And what, do you suppose, those merits might be?"

Thorongil pretended to ponder the question for a moment or two. "Well, at least I haven't yet been beaten, shot, stabbed, or run through by anyone's sword…"

She raised an eyebrow. "Definitely an advantage, I'd say."

"Yes, rather desirable, in fact. Especially in comparison to listening to Lord Fordón talk all day."

"I'm glad you think so."

They reached the stables, and began to walk down the long line of stalls, occasionally stopping to admire and stroke different horses. Thorongil watched Morwen carefully as she continued to talk cheerfully. There was something very different about her this morning. Not only did the cloud of overwhelming worry that had been settled over her for the last couple of days seem to have lifted, but she was actually quite cheerful. No, cheerful wasn't quite the word—_glowing _was a far more apt description of the queen this morning. She was glowing with an inner radiance that, quite frankly, was bewildering.

He watched her some more, half afraid there was something wrong, and this new-found cheerfulness was nothing but a mask to cover her feelings. The more he watched, however, the more genuine her joy appeared. After fifteen more minutes of unusually buoyant and talkative conversation, he was completely, and utterly lost. Just two days ago he'd been hard put to get a wan smile out of her, now she seemed to be making a complete turnaround. He was just about to shrug it off as yet another of the mysterious moods of women he'd never understand, when Morwen caught him staring at her.

"Thorongil, is something wrong? You look troubled."

He cleared his throat, hardly feeling capable of putting his concern for her into an intelligible sentence. Embarrassed to be caught staring, he stammered, "Well…it's nothing really…I…was…"

"Yes?" Morwen was unrelenting. "You were saying, Captain?"

Thorongil flinched as her gaze held him unwaveringly. "I was merely lost in thought."

"And what were you thinking about?"

"Nothing."

"Thorongil, in my experience, you have never been a man to sit around thinking about absolutely _nothing_."

He grinned. "There's always a first time."

"Yes, well this isn't it. If that expression on your face is any indication, you were thinking about a great deal. What are you worrying about?" She was determined to get an answer.

"My Lady…"

"Ah, no excuses. Don't try to sweet talk me. It won't work."

He sighed. "I am merely a little…concerned for you."

"Concerned for _me_?" To say she was confused would have been an understatement.

Thorongil steeled himself in preparation to say one of the oddest sounding sentences he'd ever said. "Yes. You're just so...happy, suddenly. "

Morwen didn't appear to notice how odd it sounded. A small, almost shy smile hovered on her lips, as she looked down at her hands. "Oh yes, _that_. I didn't realize I was being so obvious."

"It's not that I'm not happy _you _are happy," Thorongil quickly interjected. "And I'm glad you're being obvious about it, but…"

"But you would like to know what in Arda is the matter with me?"

"Well…yes."

She looked up at him again, an excited flush warming her face. "I suppose, after the way I've been chattering, I owe you an explanation. But please, don't tell anyone else what I'm about to tell you. For now, I wish it to remain a secret."

"Of course, if that is what you want." He smiled encouragingly. "I won't repeat a word, not under pain of torture."

She gave the same, slightly shy smile. "I don't believe this is the kind of information anyone tortures others to gain…"

"Now you certainly have me curious. What is it, my Lady?"

She swallowed once, bit her lip, and then her almost feverishly bright eyes met his as she blurted out, "Thengel and I are going to have another child." As if she felt the need to apologize she added, "I wasn't _certain _for a while, although I had my suspicious a day or two before Thengel and Théoden left. I didn't want to bring it up then, because I knew he wouldn't have left if I asked it of him, and I didn't want to have to make that choice. Théoden would have been so disappointed… Besides, I wasn't _absolutely_ certain then, but now…" She stopped, as she felt her happiness surge to a nearly uncontrollable level.

Thorongil didn't even attempt to halt the grin that slowly spread across his face. "I'm so happy for you, Morwen—and Thengel. If you had told Thengel and Théoden before they left, and they'd decided to stay, I'm not quite so certain that the prince would have been as disappointed as you think."

Morwen smiled, and this time he completely understood the slightly dreamy look her eyes. "Mmm, perhaps you're right. Still, I didn't want to hold him back. There will be plenty of time for this news when they return."

Thorongil nodded. "I suppose there will be."

"I'm actually rather glad you did notice. I don't know if I would have lasted another hour without telling _someone_."

"Are you…alright, then. You don't need to sit down or…something." Thorongil looked closely at her, searching for any signs of weariness.

Morwen chuckled. "No, Captain, I'm quite alright for the moment being, thank you."

She took a deep breath. It was, indeed, a good thing Thorongil had noticed. The pure joy of the news was so all-consuming, she'd been distracted from anything else. Now that she'd finally unburdened her heart, she might be able to put more attention into her other task.

So far, she felt a miserable failure, and unqualified for the task on the whole. What was she supposed to be looking for, anyways? _Spies and conspiracies_, she thought dryly. Rather vague ideas to go hunting after, as it was proving. She was beginning to see just how big and heavy a burden it must have been for Thengel. It was depressing, not to mention frightening, to look at everyone as a prospective traitor.

Thorongil noticed the sudden change in the queen, as her expression began to fade to a more thoughtful, serious expression. "My Lady?" He could guess all too well what occupied her thoughts.

"I was only trying to imagine Lord Fordón as a spy," she joked, trying to brush it off lightly.

Thorongil's smile was grim. "As much I would liketo think of Fordón as being behind any conspiracies, I'm afraid that would be rather biased of me. There are so many other possibilities to consider. Possibilities that _must_ be considered."

"But who else?" Morwen exclaimed in frustration. "I've been over the lists again and again—I just can't _see_ it. How can we know that there is a conspiracy? This all makes me feel so ridiculous."

"I know. I believe Thengel feels the same way. But I would rather feel ridiculous and be wrong, than shrug this all off and later have it proven right. The consequences could catastrophic, to say the least."

Morwen knew he was right, but she found herself becoming increasingly irritated with the whole idea. Perhaps it was _because _she knew he was right. She didn't feel angry towards Thorongil—she was quite aware none this was his fault—but she found herself snapping at him nonetheless.

"Well perhaps _you _know who's behind this 'mysterious plot', then?"

Thorongil appeared not to take any notice of her sarcastic tone, considering the question carefully before answering. "I wouldn't go so far as to say I _know _who is doing the plotting, but I just might have a guess as to who might be."

Already regretting her harsh words, Morwen said seriously, "Go on. I've run out of opinions myself, and I'm about ready to hear some else's."

"Then I shall give you mine, though I think you may already know who is at the top of my list of suspects."

"I think I could guess, but I'd rather hear it from you—along with your reasons."

"Very well then. I shall be blunt: I don't trust Captain Heolstor. As for why I distrust him, that could take a bit longer to explain."

Morwen gestured around them at the horses. "I don't think either one of us has much on our schedules today, besides standing around the stables. It's not as if we're pressed for time, and I've wanted to know for a long time exactly why you and Heolstor have never gotten along. We have all afternoon, and no one to eavesdrop besides the horses, so take your time, Captain."

"I'm afraid I don't have too many solid facts to base my dislike of him upon. I don't think I could tell you, myself, exactly why we've never worked well together. In fact, our natural animosity has never seemed to spring from mydislike of him, so much as from _his _dislike of me. Oh, we're both quite civil whenever we happen to meet, but… I've tried for quite some time to shake my inclination towards distrusting him, but I'm beginning to think it's futile."

"How so?"

"I really think if he had his way I'd be dead."

Morwen started at his words, scrutinizing his face for any signs that he was teasing her. There was no humor in his eyes. "You can't be serious?"

"I am entirely serious."

"Captain Heolstor? But he's so…normal, so _decent_. I've never known him to be anything but a perfect gentleman, and a good soldier."

Thorongil fell silent. How could he explain it? How could explain his suspicions of Heolstor, who _did_ seem so "decent"? To all outward appearance he was just what she'd said, but every once in a while, when he looked into Heolstor's eyes, or watched him smile, he was certain he saw something besides a "perfect gentleman" lurking there. Sometimes he was certain he saw something quite different lying in wait behind his too-perfect smiles. Yes, perhaps that was just it: everything about Heolstor seemed _too _perfect. No one could be that good-natured and congenial allthe time.

"Please, try to explain. I want to understand your reasons. I know you don't jump to hasty conclusions."

At Morwen's urging, he tried again. "Have you ever looked Heolstor straight in the eyes? Have you ever studied the way he smiles? I know I may sound obsessed—and as paranoid as Lord Mannalic—but there is something horribly wrong about him. A couple of days ago, as we were talking before the council meeting, I was almost certain I saw hatred in his eyes. Perhaps not against me, but certainly against someone."

Morwen tried to digest the idea. Heolstor—plotting? The words just didn't go together. "I don't know. I've never really noticed him all that much, to tell you the truth."

"Precisely my point. Heolstor is not the type that anyone takes that much notice of. He's intelligent, skilled with the sword, and good with men. His father before him led an Eored, and his father's father before him. He's a natural at what he does, and no one stops to question him. A year ago—even a _month _ago—I don't think I would have stopped to question him myself. At first I thought it was just my imagination…but now I'm not so certain."

Morwen narrowed her eyes in thought, as she began to sort through her memories of Heolstor, in the years she'd known him. Certain expressions, and certain looks, that she hadn't known what to make of at the time, came back to her. A spy? A traitor? Was it possible that, even after all these years of service, Heolstor was planning something against his king, and against his country? It still seemed improbable—but no longer impossible. The more she thought about it, the less she liked it, and the more she began to believe it.

When she finally found her voice, it was reluctant and halting. "I…think that I may…begin to understand what you mean. Heolstor…" There she stopped. It was difficult, to think about going back and facing him, now burdened with suspicions. Suspicions of the worst kind. "How long have you guessed he was…what you believe him to be?"

"It's nearly impossible to say. I don't think I've ever trusted him."

"Your, and Captain Heolstor's, dislike for each other has been remarked upon more than once in court. _That _was never any secret," Morwen goaded lightly.

Thorongil held up his hands in a claim of innocence. "It was not Iwho was the instigator of the ill-feelings."

"Ah, I see—_he _started it?" Morwen teased.

"He _did_. If you could have seen the look he gave me when we were first introduced, you would agree with me."

Morwen ran her hand along the smooth, well-groomed flank of the nearest horse. "I hope you're wrong about him," she said softly.

Thorongil began to absently run his fingers over the horse's soft coat as well, his mood instantly turning sober once again. "So do I. But we'll have to watch him."

And he did hope he was wrong, with all his heart. Although Thengel and Counselor Silfren suspectedsomething was amiss, there was still no proof, and while there was no proof there was still hope that their suspicions could be false. He desperately clung to the hope that Heolstor wasn'tbehind anything, and that no one else was either, for that matter.

**---o--oOo--o---**

As the coarse sound of cawing wafted in through his window, Heolstor jumped from his chair with more alacrity than any sound of a human's approach induced in him. He bounded over to the door, quickly locking it, and then over to the window.

"Come in, my friends," he said, with far more warmth than he'd ever shown one of his own kind.

The Crebain flew in through the window one at a time, landing softly on various pieces of furniture. The leader stayed on the windowsill in front of Heolstor.

"Here," the large Crebain croaked loudly.

Heolstor flinched. A loud Crebain mean usually meant an _irritated _Crebain, and there was nothing quite so risky as having your room filled with loud and irritated Crebain. "Yes," he said amicably. "You _are_ here. Right on time, and even a little early."

"Here," the bird reiterated, even louder. "Wants."

Heolstor swallowed, thinking out each word carefully. Crebain, when they talked, tended towards monosyllabic sentences, although they probably could have spoken more. They were always brisk, and to the point, which was useful, but it could also be confusing to grasp their meaning. "Wants?" he inquired.

The volume of the Crebain's voice grew, as it became apparently more frustrated. "What wants?"

Heolstor nodded, smiling. "Ah, you wish to know what I want?" His eyes shot to the bird's foot, where a reply to his last message _should _have been.

Wonderful. Mehdal had either not received his message, or had failed to think a response necessary. He wanted reports—full reports. Mehdal _knew_ that. Apparently the constant close proximity to Dunlendings was telling on his mental functions.

Realizing that the Crebain was still waiting for him to reply, he forced his anger to the background. "Mehdal sent no reply? He gave you no paper in return?"

"Meh-dal gone."

Mehdal gone? Could the creature mean that the man was dead? "Mehdal is…dead?"

"Not dead. Gone. Stupid ones take paper."

From the mounting volume of words the bird was using, it was obviously becoming impatient as well as frustrated. Heolstor found himself at a sudden loss for words. If he pried too much further, he would only make things worse, but he had to say _something_. "Is something wrong, my friend?"

"Food."

"You are hungry?"

"Yes. Stupid ones break pro-mise. No food."

With dawning understanding, and fury, Heolstor finally understood. Somehow, the Dunlendings had been the ones to meet the Crebain and take the note. Of course the idiots would be too dense to understand the importance of _feeding _the birds. Mehdal would never hear the end of this from him, letting _Dunlendings_ take messages. Now he would have to make up for his subordinates' stupidity.

"My friend, please forgive the stupid ones…" He had to force himself not to roll his eyes. Making apologies for _Dunlendings_… The thought was repulsive, but he had no other choice. "You must forgive them, they are idiots," he added, as a very satisfactory self-appeasement.

The Crebain seemed hesitant, so Heolstor moved quickly towards the table where his own meal lay. Picking up the platter, he brought it to the window and set it down. "Here, take this now. I will soon have the rest of your food to give you, but take this in apology."

In the end, the Crebain were but animals, and at sight of the rich food the dozen birds seemed to forget their momentary distrust, swarming towards the windowsill, and quickly devouring the offering in a matter of minutes.

When the feeding frenzy had finally died down, the Crebain left one by one until only the leader remained.

"More say?"

Heolstor was gratified to find the question spoken more quietly than before. "Yes, I do have one more thing to say. I would have you bring another message to Mehdal." Bending over a piece of paper he had ready on the desk, he scrawled a hasty letter, and turned back to the window. "Will you deliver it?"

The bird hesitated reluctantly. "Must go…back to stupid ones?"

"Yes, if you will. I assure you, I will personally see to it that you receive your food regularly."

"Yes. We will do."

The bird stood still, compliantly allowing Heolstor to tie the paper to his leg with a small piece of string, and then flapping off after the other Crebain. Heolstor clenched and unclenched his jaw. Hopefully, this time, Mehdal would receive it _in person_.

He turned back to face the room.

Feathers.

Black feathers dusted the room lightly—they were everywhere. Heolstor closed his eyes briefly, and then bent over to pluck a few off the floor at his feet. Time to start picking up the evidence.

_Oh, the things I do for power… _

**---o--oOo--o---**

On the outside, Eothald smiled. On the inside, he was in turmoil. Today he felt…strange. No, correction, for the last couple of _months _he'd been feeling strange. At first the feeling had been faint and indescribable. Now the feeling was still just as indescribable, but not nearly so faint.

Thoughts and emotions were bombarding him. The frightening thing was, they didn't feel like his own. It was as if someone was whispering in his ear. He found himself turning his head abruptly to look behind him, almost expecting to find someone standing by his shoulder. Of course, no one was ever there. But the voice in his head didn't go away. If anything, it grew more persistent.

Horrible ideas came to him, only lately they hadn't seemed quite as horrible as they used to. Some of the thoughts he'd heard for so long, he'd forgotten they were whispered in a foreign voice.

_Listen to me._

The voice was as relentless as always, constantly whispering to him every waking hour. Even as he was dropping off to sleep, and in his dreams, it haunted him, and terrified him. Or at least it _had_. Slowly, gradually, he was beginning to accept its intrusion. It was either that, or go mad. He wasn't about to tell anyone that he was "hearing a voice in his head".

Yes, he was beginning to accept it. Now, whenever he thought too much about it, all he felt was a faint bewilderment. The voice was very familiar, although he couldn't quite place it. It was as if he'd heard it—perhaps even heard it many times before—but now it just seemed like some distant memory of long ago. Every once in a while he'd think he'd heard it again…

_Stop thinking about it so much, just accept it…_

As always, the voice was soothing, encouraging him to forget all about his fears, and listen. He'd never been strong enough to resist it before, at least not for very long, and he certainly wasn't strong enough to fight it now.

_Thengel is gone now—now is the time for you to prove your worth._

How? He knew that Thengel had given him this temporary power hesitatingly, but he also knew that Thengel had hope for him. Hope that he might actually do something commendable, and show himself to be truly worthy of the responsibility that one day might be his. It was a heavy burden to bear… In all truth, he didn't want the position, and he had even stronger reasons to shun it for, in order for that to happen, both Thengel and Théoden would have to be dead.

_Don't think of that. Only think of _pleasing _Thengel while he's gone. You've always wanted his approval—gain it now._

Again, his instant response was: how? How could he prove himself worthy? How could he show Thengel just how seriously he took the responsibly given him? He'd never been a man of much determination or strength, and even now he quailed at the thought of all the power he held.

_Don't think about that either! Just think of how proud the King will be of you._

But…what could he do? So little was happening in Edoras, and in all of Rohan. At the moment, even the Dunlendings seemed to have given up attacking them in favor of settling down for a time. It wasn't that he was _wishing _for trouble, on the contrary, Eothald had freely admitted to himself long ago that he was a weak man by nature, and he'd never wanted strife of any kind.

_You are less of a coward than you think, Eothald, son of Eostald, and you will prove it. You will see your opportunity, and seize it. You are not so weak as you think you are._

But he was! He was sure of it. The last time he'd checked, he'd definitely considered himself a coward. What was going to change that now? Even his strongest desires had rarely motivated him to any great feats of will-power.

_But proving yourself won't be so hard. You merely have to show the King you are capable of handling a crisis in his absence._

But there was no crisis. He was beginning to feel slightly dizzy at the way the words were ringing in his ears, forcefully imparting their wisdom. Why did that voice sound so familiar?

_Listen!_

He did listen, forgetting all other speculations as the harshly-spoken command seemed to split his skull open. It was so loud…

_Listen…_

There. The voice was soft again, bearable, even soothing. He listened, partly because he had no other choice—after all, it was in _his_ head—but also partly because he wanted to. He was weak, and the voice was so confident and unfaltering. It seemed to know everything, and exactly what to do about every circumstance. Eothald couldn't help but admire the strength he heard. He also feared it.

Suddenly, a happy, but shocking, thought occurred to him. Was the voice his own? Was he becoming stronger? The thought of someone _else's _voice being in his head was disconcerting to say the least. Could it be…? Could that confidence be his own? Perhaps he was, after all, stronger than he'd imagined. Perhaps he did have the power to rule Rohan, should something happen to Thengel.

_Yes, you are stronger than you think. You have the ability, as well as the right, to rule. Don't underestimate yourself._

For the first time in a long time, Eothald felt a spark of enthusiasm over his new-found power. Power. A shiver ran down his spine. He'd never imagined it could sound so incredibly tantalizing…

_You can do so much while Thengel is gone—so much to help him. He means well, but he can not see all. Often, he overlooks things in his weariness. But you are young and fresh. You will see things where he has missed them._

That thought bewildered him. What _was_ there for Thengel to miss? Everything was peaceful.

_Everything _seems _peaceful. But peace can be deceiving. _

Eothad didn't know about that. Peace was…peaceful. And all the peace he saw going on seemed genuine enough.

_This peace _is _deceiving. Trust your instincts. Can't you see there is trouble brewing?_

Eothald tried hard for a full two minutes to trust his instincts, but he simply couldn't findany instincts _to_ trust.

_Think. _

Easier said than done, he thought irritably.

_Think of people, think of faces. Who would strive for power? _

No one he could think of. Certainly, there were men who seemed naturally inclined towards positions of power and influence, but none of those men did he consider to have bad intentions of any kind. There was Anborn: honest and blunt to a fault, but a good man, and very patient as well as obedient to his king. There was Thorongil: honorable, good with men, obedient to his king as well…

_Thorongil. Surely _you _must see who he really is. Surely you must see behind that artful mask he always wears? _

To Eothald, that was the most stunning statement he'd heard in a long time. Thorongil? For a moment, he felt an overwhelming desire to start laughing hysterically. The voice, however, didn't seem to be amused.

_Thorongil is not what he seems to be. He is not some honorable knight, serving faithfully so many years without any expectations. He is like every other man, and he is beginning to hunger for power and position. Can't you see? Are you _completely_ blind? He didn't grow up in Rohan—he is an imposter from the North—and yet, already, he has moved quickly. In a matter of years, see how far he has come. Most men only receive the kinds of favors he has after half a life-time of service, having proved their loyalties many times. _

Eothald tried to absorb the information, but found himself floundering. The voice continued.

_Thorongil is smooth of speech, and has ensnared your king with his clever words. He holds the rest of the Council under his influence. Silfren, and even Thengel himself, cannot see past his façade. _You_ must_.

If Thorongil was only after power… Then how was he planning on getting more? Whose position did he hope to get? Commanding an Eored was one of—if not _the _most—honored and respected of positions for a soldier. After you became Marshal of the Mark, there were few ranks you could rise. Silfren had been a Marshal, and he'd risen to become Thengel's advisor. It was a privileged position, if not terribly exciting. Surely, as a soldier, that wasn't what Thorongil sought? After advisor that left…the king.

_Precisely. I knew you would see it. Thorongil must be dealt with._

Dealt with? He didn't like the sound of that. Thorongil was one of Thengel's most favored captains. He'd seen firsthand just how close the royal family was to him—they treated him as if he was family.

_Again, you arrive at the right conclusion. Thorongil _is _close to the royal family. Too close. Thengel trusts him too freely, and unless something is done he will have cause to regret it. However, at this point, even if he could see Thorongil unmasked, he would not have the strength to deal with it. He counts Thorongil as his friend._

But…wasn't he?

_No. Thorongil is Rohan's enemy. As such, he must be eliminated, one way or another._

Eliminated. Eothald didn't like the sound of that much better than "dealt with". Both sounded far too violent and sinister. Even if he wholeheartedly wished to physically stop Thorongil from doing whatever it was he was doing, "eliminated" instantly brought pictures of himself engaged in mortal combat with the captain. Not a pleasant thought.

_You need not go out and challenge him to a duel. Elimination of Thorongil can be carried out in many ways, and his death is not necessarily the only, or wisest, course. You must gather evidence, prove he is guilty, and then let him be dealt with _publicly.

But of what could he accuse Thorongil? He had his own private suspicions now, but who else would believe him? To all outward appearances Thorongil was a loyal soldier who faithfully served his king.

_Have you not seen how often he has been with the Queen lately? Everyone in Meduseld is sure to have noticed _that.

So?

_So, there are certain implications that can be used in our favor._

But surely even Thorongil wouldn't consider something like…that.

_Does it matter? _You _know that he is guilty of _treason_. Besides, if you look for evidence, you may be surprised at exactly what Thorongil might consider doing in his drive for power. Do what you must with him, for your king, and for your country. Thorongil cannot remain. _

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**To be continued…**

**Boy, where did that idiot get his ideas, huh? -readers point to Nef in unison- Hey. I resent that. Heolstor's perfectly villainous enough to come up with devious plans on his own. I happen to _like_ Aragorn, you know… **

**All reviews will be squeed over, huggled, and generally loved to death (and once I'm calm enough, I'll even respond). So please do send feedback. :) After chapter 9, I may have to wait several weeks before posting, as my family is leaving on a car-trip down to Arizona, and even during the time before and after we get back I'm assuming there will be much craziness. I may have an internet connection once we reach our destination, and I may have the time—but no promises. I'll see what I can do. ;)**


	9. For King and Country

**A/N: Sorry for the update delay. Friday was my little brother's birthday, so I got distracted, and then Saturday I couldn't get on to the site, and yesterday…well, yesterday I was just feeling incredibly lazy and spent the entire day writing and reading fanfiction. -sheepish grin- But here it is at last. **

**Also, I just received author's privileges on Stories of Arda, so I've begun editing and re-archiving some of my stories on there. I'll probably also begin posting this story there at some point, though I haven't decided whether I'll wait until I've finished posting it here, or not (but this will continue to be the place chapters will be uploaded _first, _in either case). I'll have a link to my SoA account in my bio for those interested. ;)**

**Well, let the action begin:) **

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**Chapter 9: For King and Country **

Silfren stretched his cramped legs, reveling in the soft feel of the chair beneath him, as opposed to the saddle he'd been sitting in for hours at a time each day, for the last four days. There was one thing this journey was most definitely proving to him: he wasn't as young as he'd thought he was. There was nothing quite as invigorating as a couple days of riding, but he was discovering that, at this stage in his life, damp air and constant jarring weren't quite so easy to shrug off as they used to be. Recklessness _hurt _at his age.

At his age, however, he could also afford a little denial. He wasn't _quite _as young or agile as he used to be, but he was most certainly _not _old. Give him a sword and he'd prove that on any man who would face him. The way every bone in his body ached could be attributed to being unconditioned to such riding, as much as to advancement in years. After all, he hadn'tbeen doing nearly as much riding as when he'd been a captain, riding out into the field with his men. He might be middle-aged, and bit out of shape, but he could remedy the latter of the two problems. When they returned to Meduseld, he'd have to exercise his horse a little more often.

But that was work for later. Right now he intended to take his reward for the last four days in the form of sitting in a chair next to the fire and soaking up the heat until the chill was gone from his bones. In a day or two his muscles would be hard enough for the ride back—he hoped.

Halodawn didn't boast of very many houses, and the thatched house he was sharing, along with Thengel and Théoden, was small, but comfortably so. Although there were two rooms—one for sleeping, and another for general purposes—the three of them had instantly been drawn to the second room, with its roaring fire. Besides, Théoden was too exhausted to make it any farther.

Before he'd taken five steps inside, the young prince had flopped down on the nearest piece of furniture, which happened to be one of the long wooden benches that sat next to the table. Now he sat sideways on the bench, one leg dangling on either side, slumped sideways across the table. Despite the awkwardness of the position, and the hardness of his "pillow", Théoden had instantly fallen asleep.

Now Silfren sat in companionable silence next to Thengel, with Théoden's soft breathing, and the crackling of the fire, as the only background noise.

Turning his head just slightly to eye Thengel, he said quietly, "Well, the young prince is to be congratulated; we did make it in four days."

"Yes…" Thengel sounded equally tired. "I didn't think we were going to make it in such good time."

"You mean you didn't think _I _was going to make it."

Thengel chuckled softly. "You? I was thinking no such thing. You're perfectly capable of keeping yourself in the saddle for such a short journey."

"I'm glad you think so. For a while there I wasn't so certain myself."

Thengel raised an eyebrow. "Well I hope you weren't expecting me to offer to let _you _ride on my horse with me."

Silfren gave a quiet laugh, trailing off at the end as his eyes came to rest on the exhausted form slumped across the table. His eyes twinkled fondly. "He wants to be just like you." He looked back to Thengel. "And you know something, my friend? He is succeeding already."

"The endurance he has showed over these last days is remarkable."

"I was thinking more along the lines of stubbornness. He seems to have picked that trait up quite nicely."

Thengel feigned indignation. "It was not _I _who taught him that trait," he protested, although he carefully kept his voice low enough not to wake Théoden. "It was either you or Morwen—or very possibly the both of you. With such pig-headed examples it would have been a wonder if he had_ not _picked up on it."

Silfren smiled condescendingly. "If pushing off the blame on me helps, my Lord, do go right ahead. That's what councilors are for."

Shaking his head, Thengel rose wearily from his seat. "You know something, old _friend_? You are infuriating."

"Thank you; I know."

Thengel rolled his eyes in mock exasperation, as he walked quietly over to where Théoden slept. Gently, he picked him up in his arms and moved into the next room, carefully depositing him on one of the beds and tucking him under the blankets. Théoden yawned, eyes fluttering sleepily, as the movement woke him.

"Is it time to get up already?" he mumbled groggily, beginning to sit up.

Thengel pushed a lock of unruly hair back from his forehead. "No, it's not time to get up." Before the softly-spoken words had left his lips, Théoden's eyes had drifted shut again, and he'd dropped back onto the bed, his breathing evening out in sleep. "Sleep well, my tough little soldier."

He was just straightening from his crouched position next to the bed when he caught the sound of the door opening and shutting in the next room, and then a raised voice. Hurrying back to Silfren—and their visitor, whoever he might be—he closed the door, so that Théoden wouldn't be disturbed.

Their visitor was a young man, who now stood panting breathlessly in the doorway. His eyes darted from Silfren to Thengel, and the flow of words halted briefly as he bowed.

"Your Majesty…"

"Yes?"

At the invitation, the young man burst out between hasty gulps for breath, "Lord Mannalic…he sent me to…ask you to…come. Quickly. He says it is…most urgent. Dunlendings and Crebain have been spotted."

Both Thengel and Silfren's initial reaction was to dash for the door. But before either had done so, it hit them just _who _was talking about Dunlendings and Crebain having been spotted. They exchanged wry looks.

Settling back into his chair, Silfren offered helpfully, "Don't worry, my Lord, you go ahead. I shall stay here with the Prince."

Shooting the councilor a withering glance that clearly said just how _grateful_ he was, Thengel followed the young messenger, who was finding the situation anything but amusing.

"Very well, take me to Lord Mannalic."

"This way, Your Majesty. Lord Mannalic is waiting for you at the edge of town."

It was a good thing Thengel had a guide to show him exactly where "the edge of town" was, or else he might have walked right past it. The major difference was that here, at the border, the rough road that wound through town became just a little rougher, and the grass on either side a little taller.

They stopped, and Thengel frowned as he looked around and saw no one. Before he could ask his guide where Mannalic was, a fierce whisper came from the grass to their left, and a short, wiry man stepped out onto the road. The two men who followed him, although of average height, looked like giants in comparison.

"Thengel-King, thank the gods you have come!" the small man exclaimed, in the same hushed voice he'd used to call to them from the brush.

"Of course I have come, my friend. You said that there had been a spotting of…Crebain and Dunlendings?"

"Yes! I saw them, with my own eyes!" Lord Mannalic beckoned to them. "We have no time to lose—they may have already left by now." And he disappeared back into the tall grass.

Thengel had to crouch low as he entered the brush, in order to be hidden, for the tallest of the grass at most came up to his shoulders. He noted with amusement that, ahead of him, Mannalic was barely stooped over. With the energy of a someone half his age, the grey-haired man led the way through the endless sea of grass. Finally, he turned to Thengel.

"We're almost there." He pointed up ahead. "See that barn?"

Thengel nodded. Ahead, he could make out the shape of an old, dilapidated-looking barn, tilted dangerously far to one side.

"That's where I saw them go." Lord Mannalic moved forward again, tiptoeing quietly over against one of the walls, his entourage in tow. He put a finger to his lips, and then pressed his face against a crack in the wall. The two men, who continued to stick closely behind him, put their hands to the hilts of their swords.

Despite himself, Thengel found himself caught up in the moment as well, his hand automatically finding its way to his own sword.

After a few tense moments, Mannalic turned back to them, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Anything?" Thengel queried.

Mannalic shook his head and whispered back, "I don't…know." He shook himself. "Come, draw your swords—if there is any enemy within let us surprise him!" He boldly led the charge around the barn, and in through the broken-down door.

A flurry of wings greeted them, and for a half a second Thengel almost expected to see a group of Dunlendings in their midst. Was it possible that, after all these years of seemingly imagined alarms, Lord Mannalic's fears were actually true? Of course, he had been right several times, more or less. Usually less. Where he saw wargs, there might be an infestation of wolves; where he saw orcs, there might be a few particularly ugly robbers. However, that had always been the extent of the parallel.

But his small concern was quickly put to rest. The flurry of wings settled, as the birds alighted in the rafters. The ordinary, black birds. The _crows_. And there wasn't any evidence of greasy-haired Wild Men to be found. Silence filled the barn, interrupted only be the occasional caw from one of the irritated crows overhead. He looked over—or rather _down_—at Mannalic, who was surveying his surroundings with a look of profound bewilderment.

"But I _saw _them. I was certain of it…they were _bigger _yesterday…" he muttered, in a rather pathetically lost-sounding voice.

Thengel resisted the sudden urge to pat the man on the shoulder. It felt as if he was trying to console a small child. The whole situation fell amusingly close to reminiscing of one of the many nights he'd experienced with Théoden, assuring him that there were _no _wargs under his bed.

"Lord Mannalic…" he began, hesitantly. "I can see how it would be an easy mistake to make. Crows—Crebain—there isn't always a huge distinction. You probably just got the two confused."

"No," Mannalic said firmly. "They _were _Crebain, not these crows! It wasn't even growing dark out. I _saw _them, with my own two eyes."

Thengel swallowed. This wasn't going to be easy. He was beginning to appreciate Captain Anborn's patience and endurance. How had he consoled the man for all these years? With candy? _Enough of that_, he admonished himself. He couldn't appear condescending. Mannalic might be prone to…hallucinations, but he was still an intelligent and conscientious man, and had to be treated as such.

Mannalic studied the King's face and sighed. Wonderful. They all thought he was an idiot. Not that that was anything new. All of Rohan, doubtless, thought he was an idiot, with all his constant worries. Sometimes he himself began to believe he was truly an idiot. Either that, or mad, seeing things that weren't really there. That option was rather frightening, so he usually chose, at moments like this, to consider himself an idiot.

Lately, those feelings of stupidity had been growing.

Last time, when Captain Anborn had come, and he'd led the Captain on the wild goose chase after the Dunlendings, and had come up with nothing more suspicious than a couple of dirty-haired boys, he'd just about given up. No, he _had _given up. He'd all but promised himself not to contact Meduseld anymore. He'd decided that enough was enough. He wasn't going to be the laughingstock of Rohan anymore, and he wasn't going to bother poor Captain Anborn again. Anborn was patient, but he could tell that his constant "alarms" were beginning to wear on him.

Now he was beginning to feel downright foolish. The King himself had come. How was he to know the King would come? At first, he'd been hesitantly grateful. After all, if the King saw for himself the trouble brewing here, and testified as much, then people would _have _to take him seriously. Now, however… He was back to where he'd begun. Actually, he was worse off. The King was laughing at him. Not openly, certainly—he was far too polite and kind for that—but he could see clearly the way Thengel's mouth was fighting not to curve itself into a grin.

Oh, he'd certainly done it this time. He'd never live it down.

As he'd done uncountable times, he began to sift through his memories, analyzing each picture that sprang into his mind's eye. Was he really imagining things? Exaggerating? Had the birds _really _been larger yesterday? Had those gruff men really been Dunlendings? He stopped there. Yes. There was one thing he was certain of, he had seen those men. He hadseen those men, and heard those men—and _smelled _those men. He smiled in triumph. No matter how vivid his imagination was, he couldn't possibly have imagined that smell, he was certain of it.

Of course, he couldn't tell _that_ to the King, as irrefutable evidence. His smile fell. He had seen Dunlendings, and Crebain, he knew it. But how was he ever going to convince anyone else?

**---o--oOo--o---**

Over the next couple of days, Morwen found herself as closely shadowed by Thorongil as ever. Like a protective older brother, he was always there, unobtrusively offering his advice and protection. She'd give up long ago trying to figure out exactly how he did it; whenever she opened her door, he seemed to appear out of nowhere to escort her. Whenever she asked him how he managed to always be there just when she needed him, he would only give her an enigmatic smile.

However he did it, he never seemed to grow tired of his duty, and for her part she was extremely thankful for her inexhaustible bodyguard and impromptu councilor. She had to wonder how Thengel had known she would need Thorongil's help and protection.

Looking into the long mirror before her, she reached back, separating her hair into three even sections and beginning to braid it with deft fingers. _I'm not risking more knots until he returns, _she thought wryly. It appeared she was spoiled completely, without Thengel to patiently undo them for her. Thoughts of her husband almost instantly made her feel impatient. Had it really only been a week since he'd left?

Rolling her eyes, she pulled her half-finished braid over her shoulder and combed the snarls out of the end. She was beginning to sound like some love-struck girl, waiting for the return of her suitor. But was she so very far off from being just that?

She missed him so much, and wanted so badly to tell him about their new child. Maybe it would have been better to have told him before he left. But, for now, she had to content herself with imagining how happy he would be when she told him, and hope that he would return soon so she could actually _see _his joy at the news.

Turning her thoughts away from the baby before the excitement built up to bursting point, she thought instead of her plans for the day. Her plans for the day, such as they were, could scarcely be considered a schedule. She could sit around in her room until late afternoon brooding, or she could go and find a new setting to brood in, or she could find Feorh and pester her into letting her dosomething worthwhile, and only be turned away. Washing dishes was _not _something a queen did, and Feorh would never allow it. Little did Feorh know just how much this queen would enjoy doing something so un-queenly.

Her mind was going far too fast, and her body far too slow. She needed_ something_ to do. If she could only put her hands to something, she might distract her brain for a moment or two. If someone didn't offer her a simple—and preferably long and tedious—task to do, she was going to march out there and start mucking the stables. That was desperation for you. Just thinking about the reactions that might garner brought a smirk to her face.

She was so used to having a purpose for every day, things to fill the hours with. She may have not been the ruler of Rohan, but there were so many quiet and unobtrusive ways a queen could help her husband. Thengel never hesitated to ask for her assistance or advice, and even when she hadn't truly been busy, she'd felt useful. However, that kind of help wasn't an option at the moment. The whole point of Eothald taking control was so that he could learn and prove his abilities as a ruler. Morwen couldn't interfere, even if she'd felt comfortable enough to do so.

But thinking about all that was fruitless. No tasks were forthcoming, and mucking the stables was beginning to look like her only alternative, when a whim struck her. A rather amusing whim.

Tying off her braid, she rose and silently crossed the room, willing her dress to quit rustling. It was time to do a simple experiment in regards to Thorongil and his inexplicably perfect timing. She'd begun to wonder more than a little if he slept outside the door to her room, like a faithful guard dog. How else could he manage to _always_ be there when she planned on going anywhere? Time to solve the mystery.

She cracked the door open, searching the halls for any sign of Thorongil. No one. She cracked it open another fraction, straining to see if he was there. A slow smile spread across her face. He wasn't. Opening the door fully, she slipped out into the hall.

"Going for a walk, my Lady?"

She jumped, a small exclamation of surprise involuntarily escaping her at sound of Thorongil's voice behind her. She whirled around, and there he was, leaning casually against the wall, mostly hidden in shadow, watching her with amusement shining in his silver eyes.

"I didn't mean to startle you…"

"Well you certainly succeeded," she remarked with an irritated edge to her voice. For just a second there, she'd thought she'd actually caught himoff-guard for once. "So that is your secret: you sit here and smoke all day."

She eyed his pipe, and he lowered it, attempting to surreptitiously flick its contents into a nearby potted plant.

He offered her a sheepish grin as he placed the pipe into one of his many pockets. "Only some of the time."

"Well, to answer your first question, yes, I think I will go for a walk. It's either that, or sit in my room and die from boredom."

Straightening from his position against the wall, Thorongil offered her a lopsided smile. "Now that is a feeling I understand completely."

"Oh, don't tell me _you're _bored as well?"

"It would seem you and I are both trapped in the same position, my Lady, temporarily 'relieved' of our normal occupations. Perhaps we can find some way to entertain ourselves."

"Perhaps a ride, later? First though, there is something we need to discuss."

"Oh? What is that?" He stepped into stride beside her, as she began to move down the hall.

"You, Captain, have been withholding information from all of us," she said, managing to say it with satisfactory sternness. "For someone to be withholding information from his king, and queen,is serious indeed."

"My Lady, I…that is…" Thorongil frowned in bewilderment. "May I ask what information you speak of?"

"Your birthday."

The unexpected response caught him completely unprepared, stopping him mid-stride. "My…_birthday_?" He was simultaneously relived, and more bewildered than before.

"Yes, your birthday. You know, the day you were born? We all have one, my dear Captain, and yours is very soon. Only two days away, if my source is accurate."

Thorongil frowned. He hadn't told anyone it was his birthday, at least not that he could remember. "Yes, of course… But may I ask who this 'source' is?"

"Théoden told me."

"Ah, I see."

"Come now, there is no need to look so embarrassed. It's not as if I'm going to ask you how old you are." Less teasingly, she said, "Thorongil, you must know you've become nearly as close as family to us; at least allow us to give you a small celebration. In any case, now that you've told Théoden, there'll be no backing down. We may not be able to celebrate on the exact date, but trust me, Théoden won't forget easily. He fully intends for you to have a proper celebration—with _lots _of presents."

Thorongil matched her smile. "Well, in _that _case, I don't believe I can easily refuse."

"Don't even try."

A door opened to their left, and Feorh bustled out into the hall, her arms full of cleaning implements. Too full, as it proved. With a resounding clang, a large bucket fell to the floor. Automatically, Morwen's head turned at the abrupt interruption, eyes seeking out the source of the noise. Unfortunately, while her attention was elsewhere, she took another step. The fact that Meduseld was built on a hill meant that not all the floors were completely level—and as luck would have it, there was a small step down directly in front of her. Her foot came down at an awkward angel, twisting to the side, and her leg suddenly gave out.

With reflexes made faster by years of battle, Thorongil moved quickly to support Morwen. "Are you alright?" he asked, still supporting the queen as she caught her balance.

Morwen bit her lip, and allowed him to support her as the sharpest pain lessened. "I think I may have sprained my ankle, but I don't think it's too bad." Bad, no—embarrassing, _yes_. "I am well, thanks to your fast response."

Before either of them could say another word, they were interrupted by a voice behind them.

"And so our suspicions are confirmed."

Thorongil and Morwen turned their heads and saw Eothald, with four guards standing behind him. Thorongil turned to face him, Morwen still leaning heavily on his shoulder in order to take the weight off her sore ankle.

Eothald spoke again. "Is this how you repay the king who has shown you so much trust and favor? Is this how you repay Thengel after all these years? As soon as he turns his back, I find you plotting against him."

Thorongil stared in confusion. "Lord Eothald, I don't understand—"

"Naiveté doesn't become you, Captain. You are caught in the act, with the Queen still clinging to you. Don't compound your sin by being a coward."

Despite the fact that her ankle was now beginning to throb, Morwen hastily released her hold on Thorongil's shoulder, straightening herself to glare at Eothald. "What do you speak of? Thorongil has neither broken Thengel's trust, nor played the coward. Speak plainly."

"Your anger is understandable, my Lady, the Captain here is smooth of speech and manner. I'm sure he has convinced you that he means no harm, but I assure you he is far more dangerous than you suspect."

Morwen clenched her jaw, narrowing her eyes at Eothald. "I saidspeak _plainly_. I have had enough of hearing your vague and baseless accusations. You will tell me now exactly what it is that you claim Thorongil has done."

"Forgive me, my Queen, if I have upset you. However, this bitter duty must be done for Rohan, no matter how distasteful it might be."

Thorongil stepped into the heated conversation. "Eothald, please… There must be some misunderstanding. I can't even begin to understand what you're accusing me of, but I assure you, I have done nothing against Rohan or Thengel knowingly. On my honor, I would die to protect both."

Eothald was silent, and for a moment Thorongil thought he saw uncertainty flash across his face. But then it was gone, and he was speaking in the same tight voice. "See? Can't you see the lie behind those easily spoken words?"

"I see only the man who has served Rohan faithfully all these years, a man that I trust as a brother." Morwen's voice was deadly calm. "You will leave _now _Eothald. You are drunk if you think that he means me, Thengel, or Rohan harm."

"Oh, I am not drunk, my Queen. I am completely sober and aware of whom I am accusing of what. And, seeing how _I _am the one Thengel left in charge, _I _will be the one giving orders here."

Thorongil and Morwen could hardly believe their ears. This angry, controlling man in front of them seemed like a stranger. They had never seen Eothald fight for anything. He had always been quiet and unassuming to the point of shyness. This self-assured man in front of them hardly looked or sounded like the laid-back Eothald they knew. But he didn't _sound_ drunk. Besides, Eothald was known for passing out before he had been well and truly drunk for long; he didn't grow _angry _on alcohol, quite the opposite in fact. Apparently Eothald wasn't half done talking, either. Whatever he was talking about, he certainly appeared to believe it himself wholeheartedly.

Thorongil stepped forward and laid a hand on Eothald's shoulder. "Lord Eothald, please, calm down. As I said, there _must_ be some misunderstanding. I have done no 'plotting' of any kind."

Eothald shrugged off the placating gesture. "Don't touch me again, Captain. And I warn you not to try any of your clever words on me. I won't fall for them, and fully intend to see you get what you deserve."

"I am loyal soldier of Rohan—"

"'Loyal'," Eothald spat out the word with disbelief. "Any soldier who does as you have done is no friend of Rohan, but her enemy. Are you not ashamed of yourself, Captain? Thengel considered you his friend, yet now, you would attempt to seduce his wife."

There was a long, astonished silence, as Morwen and Thorongil attempted to digest the accusation. If Eothald hadn't been so obviously serious, they both might have begun to laugh. As it was…apparently Eothald expected a serious answer.

Morwen stood rigid as a statue. "How can you say that—how can you even _think _it? Everyone knows the nature of our friendship. How dare you accuse him of that? How dare you accuse _me _of that?"

"My Lady, of course I don't accuse _you _of anything. The blame does not lie with you; it is the Captain who has so deviously sought your attentions…"

"Ah, I see, so I am simply too naive to know when a man is trying to gain my affections?"

"Not at all, my Lady, I merely meant that Thorongil is—"

Morwen rolled her eyes, and supplied, "'Smooth of speech'? Well let me tell you one thing, _Lord _Eothald, Thorongil is a highly intelligent man, but he is neither devious nor deceitful, and he has given no cause for your hatred."

Eothald sighed patiently. "I know this must be highly painful for your Majesty to grasp… But it is for the best, believe me."

"I _don't_ believe you!"

Eothald stepped forward and grasped her hand. "Just come with me, my Lady. You need not witness this painful scene."

Morwen jerked her hand away. "What 'painful scene'?"

Eothald closed his eyes briefly. "If you insist on watching it is none of my affair, I merely seek to spare your feelings in what I am sure is an emotional situation. Please, if you would step to the side…" He turned to the guards behind him, motioning them forward, and then turned back to Thorongil. "Captain Thorongil, you are under arrest—on the charge of treason."

**

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**To be continued…**

**Yes, I do realize this qualifies as somewhat of a cliffy. And I _am_ leaving on vacation. I promise you, though, it was not a purposeful scheme on my part, to leave you all hanging here. I don't have the next chapter completely edited, or I'd probably post it. As it is, I'm having all kinds of "brilliant" ideas I'd like to add in first (and I've got a brain-numbing cold right now, so can't seem to get said brilliant ideas down on actual paper yet). I'll bring my flashdrive and laptop along, and work on expanding the next chapter--and I _may_ have an opportunity to update. However, our family's car-trips tend to be a little…unstructured, so I really won't know what our schedule looks like until it unfolds. **

**Please do let me know your thoughts on the chapter! And hey, since I am adding to the story anyways, if you've got something you'd really like to see happen… let me know. Who knows, I may get inspired to include it :)**


	10. Enforced Relaxation

_**See first chapter for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes. **_

**A/N: Sorry about the mess-up with the last chapter… I really don't know what happened, but for a while after posting it seems my chapter would alternately show up, and then cease to exist the next moment. It exists now, though, so if you didn't see I updated, chapter 9 is now up (and if you are just reading it now, I would still really, really love to know what you think of it, even though it's not an evil cliffy anymore –bg-). Thank you for the reviews:) **

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**Chapter 10: Enforced Relaxation **

"Captain Thorongil, you are under arrest—on the charge of treason."

The words seemed to reverberate again and again in the minds of Thorongil and Morwen. This was all so unexpected, so unbelievable… All they could do was stare at Eothald as if he'd gone mad. This had to be some sort of elaborate prank. But in a moment, Eothald made it all too clear that he was anything but joking.

The guards still seemed a little hesitant to arrest Thorongil, who was renowned for his fighting skills. They feared Heolstor, and they'd never see their part of the reward if they didn't do this—not to mention that they could never dare to disobey his orders and hope to get away with their lives—but Thorongil was to be feared as well. Even if they had no love for the captain, they had a certain amount of respect for him, or at least for his skill. Their eyes fell to the sword at his side, and then turned questioningly back to Eothald.

"I said _arrest _him," Eothald said angrily.

The guards moved forward obediently. Morwen watched their proceedings with mounting anger, as one of the men brought forth a set of manacles. Thorongil frowned, but held up his hands in a placating gesture.

"Please, there is no need for force; I have done nothing, but I will go without a fight."

But the men paid no attention, locking the first manacle around his wrist, and wrenching his arm around behind his back to secure the second. He winced as his arms were forced into the awkward position, but didn't offer any resistance.

Morwen, on the other hand, wasn't nearly so calm.

"Eothald, you will stop this at once." As Eothald didn't seem too impressed, she turned to the guards, two of whom now gripped Thorongil's arms. "Release Thorongil _immediately_." The guards didn't move, but kept their hold on the captain.

Eothald smiled indulgently. "You see, your Majesty, they know who's in charge here. I suggest you go to your rooms."

Morwen glowered. "And _I _suggest you go to Mordor, _Lord _Eothald."

The indulgent smile left Eothald's face in a flash. "You go too far, my Lady."

"Oh no, it is not Iwho goes too far." She gave a disgusted look at the guards who detained Thorongil. Apparently these men were either bribed, or stupid. Surely some of the palace guards would listen to herorders over Eothald's. She called as loudly as she could, "_Guards_!"

Eothald shook his head as she continued to repeat the call. "As you can see, Lady Morwen, these," he motioned towards the men behind him, "_are _the only guards present. And, they listen to mycommands. And _my _commands are to take this traitor to the dungeon."

If Eothald had had any remaining sense, he might have been frightened at the way the tall woman before him flared in anger, standing up to her full, and rather imposing, height. As it was, he ignored her, turning nonchalantly to the guards and motioning languidly.

"Take him and lock him up securely."

"No!" Morwen protested, although she knew by now how futile words were with Eothald.

Eothald took her firmly by the elbow, as two of the guards began to pull Thorongil in the other direction. "I think it is time you took some rest, Majesty. All this is straining on your emotions. Allow me accompany you to your rooms…"

Thorongil shot her a glance over his shoulder, and Morwen could see the conflicting helplessness and concern in his silver eyes. She made up her mind. Or perhaps she moved without thinking at all. In any case, it _felt _like the right thing to do, at the time. She jerked her arm away from Eothald's grasp—and made a fist. The men dragging Thorongil away paused to watch. It wasn't every day you got to see the queen of Rohan punch one of the lords.

Before Eothald saw what hit him, she'd struck him square in the face, knocking him backwards a step. He stood stunned for a moment, then his hand reached up to gingerly touch his nose, coming away bloody.

"It would seem the Queen is even more distraught than I believed." He looked meaningfully at the two guards who'd remained close by him. "She needs a…reliable escort."

Recognizing the fact that now was not the time to question or hesitate, the guards gritted their teeth, and grabbed the queen's arms as firmly as they dared.

Morwen wasn't sure what she was attempting to accomplish by struggling. If she'd stopped to think rationally she might have realized the futility of her actions. But struggle she did, and for a split second she even escaped from the guards' bruising hold on her. However, they were quick to react, and lunged to grab her again. In her frenzy to escape, she all but forgot about her twisted ankle. Of course, as soon as she tried to _run _away, the ankle instantly reminded her. With a surprised cry of pain, she fell to one knee.

It was too much for Thorongil to stand. Every muscle in his body had tensed in anger when he'd seen the guards grabbing the queen to physically force her to come with them. Even if he hadn't promised the king that he would take care of Morwen, his first instinct would have been to protect her. Now, as he heard her cry out in pain, he couldn't bear it any longer. He hardly felt the guards' grip on his arms, or the manacles that held his wrists, only the sudden unstoppable urge to run to her aid, drowning out all former vestiges of calmness.

"My Lady!"

He would have rushed to her side, but inevitably, the guards were able to catch him long before he reached her. One of them grabbed hold of his arms again, while the other punched him in the stomach twice in succession, robbing his lungs of air. Involuntarily, a grunt of pain escaped him as he doubled over against their hold.

"I wouldn't have suggested that, Captain. The guards _will _get you to your cell eventually, no matter what you do. The odds are against you, and that was not a wise move." Eathol grabbed the still-struggling Morwen by the arm, pulling her to her feet. "This way, my Lady." When Morwen tried jerking her arm away a second time, he pulled her closer and whispered meaningfully, "If you wish it to go easy on your dear Captain Thorongil, I would strongly recommend you don't show any more resistance."

It was all too obvious what he meant. Even now, the guards didn't seem to think Thorongil was nearly compliant enough, responding to even his smallest movements by showering him with blows. As Morwen was pulled unwillingly to her feet, he started again, following her with his eyes, giving her weak smile of regret. Then he was pulled roughly to his feet and shoved forward.

Morwen glared icily at Eothald, who, with two guards in tow, "escorted" her down the hall, but she offered no further resistance. She couldn't risk doing anything if it meant Thorongil might pay the price. She didn't even want to think about what that price might be. All her struggling was futile at the moment, but inwardly she was far from defeated. Gathering the threads of her dignity around her, she entered her room without protest. In the doorway, she paused to face Eothald.

"I don't know what is wrong with you, Eothald, or what you are trying to accomplish, but let me tell now, you won't get away with this. Thorongil is innocent. No one but you would even _think _to accuse him of treason. Anyone in their right mind will see this accusation for the lie it is. I will see Thorongil freed before the night is finished, and you on your knees begging for forgiveness."

Eothald only laughed. "Brave words, your highness, but rather rash. You have nothing to support you."

"No? I have the King and the rest of Rohan to support me. I believe the odds are rather in my favor."

"The King does not return for some time yet, and in the meantime I am the one who makes decisions."

"Ah, but you can not try him without the King's knowledge."

"Perhaps not. But I can keep him locked up securely until the King returns. In the meanwhile, I plan on dredging up every piece of evidence I can find. In the end, I will see Thorongil _hung_."

The word seemed to choke Morwen, preventing her from saying another words. With triumph and determination, Eothald spoke briefly to the guards, and turned on his heel, storming down the hall before she'd recovered herself. After that, the guards gave her a look that clearly said, "don't try anything" and closed the door in her face, leaving her to wait, and worry.

**---o--oOo--o--- **

Although there was absolutely nothing he would have liked more than to defend Morwen with his life, Thorongil realized that he wasn't left that option. Hopefully, Eothald hadn't taken complete leave of his senses, and would understand the consequences he would face if he hurt Morwen in the slightest. Even if, by some intervention of the Valar, Eothald survived Thengel's wrath, he wouldn't survive _Thorongil's_. If he survived this himself, he would make sure Eothald regretted ever having laid hands on her.

The thought of what he might doto Eothald should he ever be so fortunate as to get the chance, was extremely useful in distracting himself from his own rather undesirable position. After all, he was being led away—or more precisely pushed, shoved, and dragged—to the dungeons, by two men who obviously agreed with Eothald. Apparently, they were also quite enthusiastic about making life miserable for him.

As if reading his thoughts, and deciding to help confirm them, the guard to his left gave him a particularly hard shove forward. It wouldn't have been so bad—after all, he'd just endured half-a-dozen such shoves over the last five minutes—if it hadn't been for the fact that they were now in front of the stairs that led down to the dungeons below Meduseld. Thorongil stumbled, but managed to catch himself in time to keep from plummeting down the stairs head-first. This time, the guard to his right solved his problem.

Theoretically, he'd always known that it was harder to balance without the use of your arms, but that didn't mean he enjoyed being reminded of the fact on multiple occasions. He could have done without the firsthand knowledge; however, he was once again treated to that wonderful feeling of helplessness.

Being pushed onto the first step wasn't exactly the ideal way to start, but he tried to keep his balance, and move onto the next step quickly enough to avoid meriting more attention from his escorts. Far be it from him to be so fortunate, on this day of recurring catastrophes. The next push would have been hard enough to bring him forward at least three stairs. As it was, despite his many talents, he never had been able to fly, and couldn't do so now, so he found himself tumbling past the next three stairs—and falling painfully down the rest.

Rolling to a stop at the bottom of the stairwell, he was left alone to count his bruises while the two guards sauntered after him at a considerably more cautious rate. After examining his new aches and pains, he finally began to register the aching sensation radiating from his side. Wonderful. With his luck, the stitches, which had been well on their way to being ready to be removed, would be torn. His head throbbed mercilessly from having hit the wall and steps several times on his way down. This day continued just continued to improve with every passing minute.

Well, there was no more time for cheerful thoughts, his newest acquaintances were back. They were gentle as ever, as they guided him through the dark corridors, and deposited him with a friendly shove into his cell. They were so enthusiastic in this last gesture, that his head was once again treated to the dizzying sensation of striking against solid stone. Then, he was finally left to his own thoughts.

After a series of painful, awkward movements, he finally managed to sit up without the use of his arms. As soon as he'd reached an upright position, however, both his throbbing head and side agreed that it might have been wise simply to have lain there. While flopping down on a soft bed would have been one thing, he wasn't about to flop back down on the hard stone—none of his injuries would thank him for that—but since falling over was about the only way he could see to lay back down, he decided against the whole idea.

He scooted backwards until his back rested against the cold wall. A trickle of water ran down his shirt, and he nearly yelped in surprise. Quickly moving further to the right, he tentatively tried out that part of the wall. When no more icy water ran down his back, he settled against it and tried to get comfortable. But, after an hour of fruitlessly shifting from one position to another, his optimism began to wear thin.

Stone floors and stone walls didn't make for the most comfortable of sitting, and although he didn't have water running down his back, he soon discovered that no matter where he sat, puddles magically seemed to gather under him. He soon gave up, as it little mattered once his pants were entirely soaked. The chill seemed to seep into his bones, and he realized with annoyance that he was shivering. The way his arms were tied prevented him from even curling up and huddling in misery.

Resting one of his throbbing temples against the cool stone, he closed his eyes and sighed. He only hoped Araedhelm would understand. After all, he wouldn't be able to meet him this afternoon as he'd promised… Getting thrown in prison for treason could really wreak havoc with ones' schedule.

**---o--oOo--o--- **

Feorh willed her breathing to slow, as she pressed her back against the pillar.

Thorongil, arrested? For _treason_?

She was trying hard to digest the idea, and failing completely. Behind her, she could hear the guards man-handling the captain away to the dungeons. She was old, and not a woman of violent tendencies by nature; however, between what they were doing to Thorongil, and how they were treating Morwen, a spark of something that just might have been defined as aggressiveness stirred within her.

All she knew was that she had a sudden and overwhelming desire to walk up to Lord Eothald and punch him in the face, just as the queen had. The gall, the stupidity, and the nerve he had to touch the queen. Who did he think he was? The moment Thengel turned his back, he began by locking up one of Rohan's most trusted and loved captains. She had a strong urge to give him a good piece of her mind.

_Calm down, old woman, and _think

She didn't necessarily calm down, but she did begin to think rationally about her next step. She had to tell someone. No, she corrected herself, she had to get _Stolad_ to tell someone. Her own days of running back and forth bearing messages were over, but her nephew would be more than willing to take on this task, especially if it were for Thorongil.

She started towards the kitchens at a brisk pace, calling for Stolad as soon as she neared them.

"Stolad! Stolad, answer me! Where are you?"

Stolad, who was accustomed to being called in such a manner, and so not unduly worried, poked his head out of the kitchen door.

"I'm here, Aunt. What is it?"

Feorh took him by the shoulders in a gesture of earnestness, speaking in a rapid but quiet voice, "I need you to take a message to Lieutenant Araedhelm as quickly as you can."

"What message?"

"Stolad, something terrible has happened. Captain Thorongil has been…arrested."

"Captain Thorongil has been―"

"Arrested," Feorh finished impatiently. She was beginning to recover from her own shock, and recapture her normal efficiency. "Yes. And I'm afraid it's quite serious too. Lord Eothald has accused him of treason."

"But he couldn't have! Thorongil would never do anything against Rohan, I know he wouldn't."

Feorh smiled at his earnestness. "Of course not. I don't think anyone _but _Lord Eothald seriously thinks so. But Eothald is in control, and now the Captain is in the dungeons. Araedhelm must know as soon as possible."

Stolad swallowed hard, but nodded. "I will find him, and tell him."

Feorh gave him a gentle push. "Then go—quickly."

She watched him dash off, and then directed her own steps back the way she'd come. When she reached the queen's rooms, she saw that the door was flanked by two guards—two of the guards that had been there when Thorongil was arrested. Without hesitating, or giving them so much as a glance, she marched right up to the door and knocked.

"My Lady, it's Feorh. May I come in?"

The guards looked uncertainly at each other over her head, but only shrugged when the queen called out her permission. Their orders had been not to allow the queen to leave her rooms unattended, not to accost old women trying to get _in_.

Feorh shot them a glare, shutting the door firmly behind her. Her attitude softened instantly as her eyes lighted upon Morwen, who stood just a few steps away, face pale, and hands clenched in front of her. Right now, the queen looked to her like little more than a child, a young girl in need of support. Quickly closing the few feet between them, Feorh glided over to the queen and took her hands.

Yes, they were definitely trembling, if only slightly, and cold. She knew Morwen well enough to realize that her physical state couldn't be attributed entirely to emotions. Morwen had been through a lot this morning, but she wouldn't have collapsed so easily if it were just that.

_Although what that _monster _has done would be enough to upset any woman… _she thought sourly, once again having uncharacteristically violent thoughts towards Eothald. She would let Araedhelm deal with him. For now.

"Feorh, Lord Eolthald has…" Morwen began quietly.

Feorh interrupted, gently leading her over to the bed. "Come my dear, sit down. I know all about it."

Morwen complied with the motherly gestures, and allowed Feorh to guide her to a sitting position on the bed. "How do you know? It only happened a few minutes ago…"

Feorh could see she was already beginning to calm, emotionally leastways. However, it appeared she had been right in her assumptions that Morwen's state wasn't entirely due to emotional strain. Her face was still far too pale for her liking.

"Are you hurt, my Lady?"

"A little…but I don't think it's at all serious." Morwen shook her head, as if to brush it off. "What I'm worried about is―"

Feorh interrupted her a second time, in a firm, but respectful, voice, "What Iworry about first and foremost, my Lady, is your health. After I make sure thatis well, _then _we can begin to worry about other matters."

Morwen let out a long breath. "Have you been taking lessons from Neylor?"

"Why would you think something like that?" Feorh returned, her face all innocence.

"Because you seem to have picked up his bedside manner," Morwen said wryly.

"I don't know what you're talking about, my Lady, I only want to see with my own two eyes that you are well, and then I promise I'll quit fussing."

"Well, I believe I can live with that."

"Then tell me where it hurts, and I'll get my fussing over with as quickly as I can."

"It's my ankle."

"Which one?"

"Left. It's not broken, just sprained, I think."

Feorh dragged a chair over the side of the bed, gently propped the queen's left foot up on it, carefully eased her shoe off, and began to inspect her ankle. She didn't have any medical training to speak of, but she'd raised enough children to know how to treat a sprained ankle. It wasn't too serious a sprain, but it was swollen.

Feorh shook her head. "You're not going to be walking on this for a bit."

Morwen leaned back on her elbows and sighed as Feorh released her foot and walked to the door. She was preparing to open the door and call loudly for Stolad, when she remembered that he was already employed in delivering her message to Araedhelm. Throwing open the door suddenly enough to startle the guards outside, she poked her head out of the room.

"One of you, go get some water. The coldest you can find. And cloth for bandages—_clean _cloth."

The guards stood, rooted to the spot, staring at her. Choosing the guard to her left, Feorh unhesitatingly jabbed him in the chest with a finger.

"You—go get it now," she demanded.

"Our orders were to…"

"Who cares about your orders? I certainly don't." She narrowed her eyes at the guard. "What's the matter, don't you think one man is enough to keep an eye on an old woman, and an injured queen? Gods alive, she has a sprained ankle, and she'll need to rest it for a day at least."

The guard averted his gaze, looking ridiculously sheepish, and not a little confused. Was he really taking orders from an old woman? Apparently he was, for the next thing he knew, he was nodding, and walking off, wondering where on earth one was supposed to find clean cloth.

"Hurry up, I don't have all day!" Feorh barked after him.

She looked at the remaining guard, who stepped back, as if expecting her to jab him too. With a smile, that looked far more like a snarl, she closed the door in his face.

Feorh turned back to the queen, scowl still in place. She found Morwen, reclined on the bed, laughing softly.

"You certainly told them."

"Well, they needed telling," Feorh stated with righteous conviction. "Standing out there like two mute statues, with nothing better to do than 'guard' you. Well, _I _say, if Eothald has no better use to put them to, then I'll _find _a few to put them to myself."

Feorh was gratified to see that Morwen was beginning to relax, and regain a little of her color.

"I'm beginning to feel rather sorry for them," Morwen said, smiling.

"Those guards?" Feorh asked incredulously. "Why on earth would you pity them? I'm only keeping them busy. They were probably bored to death before."

"Well, you may be right. But I wouldn't expect a thank you from them—or Eothald."

"No, I won't go so far as to hope for gratitude."

Hearing the returning footsteps of the guard, Feorh went to the door. As the first timid knock sounded on the door, she jerked it open just as suddenly as she had the first time. The guard quickly dropped his hand, which had been raised to knock again, and stepped aside as his comrade came forth, bearing both water and cloth. Feorh allowed her death-glare to abate just a little as she snatched these from him and closed the door in their faces again.

She set the bowl of water on the stand next to the bed, and dipped a finger into it to test it. Satisfied with how cold it was, she took one of the cloths and submerged it in the bowl. Reflexively, Morwen started as she laid the cloth on her ankle.

"That's _freezing_."

Feorh smiled. "That _is_ the idea, my Lady…"

Morwen willed her leg not to jerk away, as Feorh continued to repeat the process a number of times, wringing out the cloth into a separate bowl, and then rewetting it before applying it again.

"Feorh, how many times are you going to do that? I think my leg is beginning to go numb…"

"Is it? Well, that's good." Feorh said with satisfaction. "As for your question, I think it would be best to continue this for a couple more minutes, at least."

Morwen sighed, but stoically endured five more minutes of the treatment, before Feorh finally left the cloth on the stand, turning back with a drycloth this time. It felt gloriously warm, as she wrapped it firmly around her ankle, and tied it off. She stepped back to examine her handiwork, pursing her lips in satisfaction.

"Now, my dear, you must lay back and try to relax," she said, plumping up the pillows at the head of the bed.

Morwen gingerly pulled herself more fully onto the bed, with Feorh gently guiding her foot off the chair and propping it up on a cushion. With a contented sigh, Feorh sank onto the vacated chair.

Turning her head languidly on the supporting heap of pillows, Morwen smiled. "Are you happy now?"

"No, not entirely. But I'm content on this one score, my Lady."

Closing her eyes briefly, Morwen nodded. Even though Feorh's comfortingly every-day presence—along with her mothering and fussing—had been a welcome distraction, they hadn't been enough to drive thought of Thorongil's predicament from her mind. She didn't doubt it was the same case with Feorh, who, at the moment, was busy looking worriedly down at her lap.

"Now that I'm all taken care of, we can both get down to worrying properly," Morwen said quietly.

Feorh looked up slowly, and then looked back down at her lap. "What proof does he have?"

It was obvious who she was referring to.

"None that I know of," Morwen replied. "Eothald is a fool if he thinks he can get away with this."

"No, I think there are too many people against him for him ever to get away with whatever it is he means to accomplish by imprisoning the captain. I sent Stolad for Captain Araedhelm before I came here, so he should be here soon, if he's not here already." Feorh smirked. "Araedhelm will be a force to reckon with, in and of himself, even without an Eored behind him—and knowing the loyalty of Thorongil's men, he _will_ have all of their support."

"Yes, and I believe we can count on Anborn and his men being behind us as well, even if Araedhelm's wrath isn't enough." Morwen's smile faded, and she said bluntly, "But this won't be a battle of physical strength, Feorh. We have to convince Eothald to release him." She paused, confusion written across her face. "Although…I don't know why he's doing all this in the first place."

"Crazy. He's lost what little brains he had to begin with, if you ask me," Feorh said haughtily.

"Feorh…" Morwen said, failing to sound as reproving as she'd meant to. "You shouldn't talk about him like that. After all, he is…"

Feorh raised an eyebrow. "He is _what_?"

"He is in charge, at the moment," Morwen ended calmly. "And he's Thengel's brother by marriage, as well. Look, Feorh, I know you dislike him, and would as soon harm him at the moment as look at him. You're not alone in that. But getting ourselves in trouble with him isn't going to help Thorongil. I'm not saying that we need to become best friends with him, but we do need to at least attempt to feign tolerance of him. At least for now."

Feorh's only response was an indistinguishable murmur of discontent.

Morwen ignored it. "We will come up with a plan, and soon, if I have any say in the matter. I won't let Thorongil rot in prison, or endure their treatment of him, for a second longer than I have to. Believe me, I would stop it this very moment if I could."

"But you are the _queen_. Surely that must mean something. Can't you just…tell him he's incompetent and insane, and take over for him? Thengel-King would never agree with this."

Morwen sighed heavily. She'd debated this very point a number of times already. Dismissing Eothald from his position was the very thing she would have liked to do, and the very thing she knew she couldn't do.

"No," she began quietly. "Thengel wouldn't agree with what he's doing. But I can't do anything about it." She continued on quickly as Feorh began to protest, "Thengel wouldn't agree with what he's doing—but he _did _leave Eothald as steward in his absence. You know that means that no one can take over, or release him of his responsibilities, unless he is clearly, and undoubtedly proven to be a traitor or utterly incompetent. The law is very clear one this point Feorh. You remember Haudhelm."

Feorh nodded sullenly. Of course she remembered him: the man had made this law necessary when he'd attempted to steal Rohan from his brother—the King—the moment he turned his back, leaving one of his councilors in charge. The King had mistrusted his brother. And not without reason. As soon as he'd left, Haudhelm had proclaimed the councilor unfit, and attempted to seize the throne himself. If it hadn't been for the sudden, and early, return of the King, along with the hesitancy of the people to accept Haudhelm's demands, he might have done serious damage.

From that time on, the law had been made much more specific, and once the King of Rohan appointed a steward in his stead to rule, that man could not be disobeyed or discarded without serious evidence of insanity, or treason. A lengthy trial, at the least, was required.

"I know you would stop him, if you could, my Lady," Feorh said, relenting a little. "It's just infuriating, that man…"

"I know. I wouldn't have punched him if I didn't feel the same way."

"Well, if I had permission to punch him…"

"Feorh," Morwen spoke warningly. "Haven't you been hearing a word I've said?"

"I have, but…"

"Feorh, if we react in anger—if we do anything to make Eothald angry—it will go all the worse for Thorongil. Ironic as it may seem, anything we do for him, will probably go against him."

"But we can't just do _nothing_."

"Shh…" Morwen held her finger to her lips, raising her head slightly off the pillow to better face Feorh. "Don't speak so loudly. No, of course I don't intend to leave him there. I just said so. But we can't go about rescuing him by pummeling Lord Eothald. Giving in to our anger will accomplish nothing, except to hurt Thorongil."

"Are you saying that Eothald will hurt Thorongil in response to our actions?" Feorh exclaimed in an indignant whisper.

"I wouldn't be surprised. That is why we must contain ourselves, and fight this battle with our wits, rather than our fists. Are you beginning to see, Feorh?"

Feorh was back to looking down at her lap, and grumbling in a low voice, "Oh, I see it alright, my Lady. I've seen it right from the start. That doesn't mean I _like_ it."

"Nor do I, Feorh. I do not have the power to release him now, but this will end soon. If I must, I will prove to the courts that Eothald is insane, but I will have Thorongil freed."

* * *

**To be continued…**

**That's not a cliffy, right? ;-) I mean, Thorongil's in prison, in immanent peril of who-knows-what—in addition to having his name slandered—but hey, you know I'll get him out of this in one piece (more or less). Please, please, please review! I love hearing from my readers. :) **


	11. Of One Mind

**_See first chapter for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes._**

**A/N: Meh. I am so sorry for the extreme belatedness of this update... Alerts have been down, and I was waiting things out in the hopes it would only be a day or two delay until it was back up. No such luck. So I'm posting regardless, in the hopes that people will find the chapter anyways. Whenever there's a delay in the future, I'm going to make an effort to say something on my LJ--so if I'm late, and you're wondering, check there (you can find the link in my bio). **

**Also, I have been responding to reviews, but since alerts are down (-sigh-), you may not have recieved my response. Hopefully, when things get running again, those will get sent to you as well. :)**

**And here's the chapter: a lot of angry Araedhelm, some confused Eothald, and a dash of a new-to-the-story (cannon) character. Oh...and of course there's poor Stolad. :P **

* * *

**Chapter 11: Of One Mind **

Surely he was insane. He must be, to have willingly taken on this task. Either insane, or suicidal.

Stolad strode through Edoras swiftly, but as he neared Araedhelm's house, he began to wonder if he dared go in. Perhaps if he shouted loud enough, and then ran as quickly as he could, he could get the message to Araedhelm, but be out of throwing distance before the man himself appeared.

Suppressing such involuntary feelings of fear, he forced himself to stand calmly in front of the door. He knocked, albeit softly, and with the secret desire that no one would answer. But someone did answer. Araedhelm himself.

"Stolad?" Araedhelm said in surprise. "What brings you here so early?"

Stolad bit his lip. He found speech was _possible_, but all of the sudden it seemed extremely undesirable…

Araedhelm frowned. "Is something wrong? Has there been news of the King?"

Stolad cleared his throat nervously. "No…no news of the King, as of yet."

"Well then what is it, boy, speak up. Did Feorh send you?"

"Yes…she did…" Stolad hedged. He cleared his throat again.

Araedhelm shook his head. He couldn't decide whether he was frustrated or amused at Stolad's obvious reluctance. "Well, I'm glad to get one 'yes' out of you—are you waiting for another question, or are you going to volunteer some information?"

"Sorry… Feorh did send me, she sent me to give you a message. A very important message…"

Araedhelm raised both eyebrows. "Yes, I'm waiting. What is this 'very important message'?" As he watched Stolad, his emotions settled on neither frustration nor amusement, but worry. The boy was truly frightened. "What has happened?" he asked, this time seriously.

Looking up, Stolad bravely met his eyes, and said in a stronger voice than he knew he possessed, "Captain Thorongil has been put under arrest by Lord Eothald, and thrown into the dungeons on the charge of treason."

As soon as he'd said it, his fleeting courage seemed to desert him, and he looked down at the ground. The seconds ticked by slowly. He wasn't entirely certain what he'd expected Araedhelm to do once he'd revealed Thorongil's predicament, but it definitely wasn't _this_—not this prolonged silence. When he finally gathered up enough resolution to dart a glance at Araedhelm, he immediately wished he hadn't.

"_Treason_?"

Stolad flinched as the lieutenant exploded at last. "Please, sir—"

Araedhelm paid him no head, hardly appearing to see or hear him, as his hand automatically found hold of his sword handle. He stormed out the door without glancing at the boy.

Closing his eyes briefly, Stolad ran after Araedhelm as the lieutenant walked steadily towards Meduseld, and finally up the long flight of stairs. He kept his mouth shut. Obviously, nothing he could say was going to stop him. The dangerous glint in Araedhelm's eyes openly betrayed his intentions. It appeared he himself was safe, but he could see that Lord Eothald might not be so fortunate in the near future.

As they reached the top of the stairs, the tall figure of Captain Anborn separated itself from the shadows.

"Araedhelm."

Araedhelm hardly slowed.

"Araedhelm," Anborn said again, positioning himself in the lieutenant's path. "Wait."

Finally, Araedhelm acknowledged his presence, looking up at him, and offering a surly, "Why?"

"Because I want you to listen to me—and I want you to listen _well_."

"I don't have time." Araedhelm tried to move past, but Anborn laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. At that, his expression, if possible, grew a shade more sullen. "What do you want, Captain? If you want to talk to me, then you'll have to speak quickly. Perhaps you haven't heard, but Thorongil is in trouble, and I, for one, am not going to sit around spending my time in idle talk."

"Yes. I have heard. And sitting around in 'idle talk' is hardly the way I plan on spending my time either. What I have to say concerns Captain Thorongil—now will you listen?"

"_My_ concern for my captain does not include standing here listening. It includes—"

"It includes a great deal of violence. Yes, Araedhelm, I can well imagine. But before you go in there and begin smashing skulls, I strongly suggest you listen to my advice."

Araedhelm narrowed his eyes. "Oh? And what is this 'advice' of yours? I suppose you want me _not _to go in there and start smashing skulls?"

"Well, that might be a good place to start." Anborn tightened his grip on Araedhelm's shoulder, as the other man made a sound of disgust before attempting to pull away again. "Threatening Lord Eothald will only get you in trouble as well."

"I'll take that risk."

"It's not a risk, it's a promise. You go in there _looking_ for trouble, and you're going to _find _some, I can guarantee you."

"It's my head to lose, I can lose it in any way I please," Araedhelm replied with a glare.

"Araedhelm, _calm down_."

"Let. Go. Of. Me."

Holding back a few steps away, Stolad decided it was time to take refuge in one of the pillar's shadows. This didn't sound good at all. If he was any judge, this conversation looked like it was going to end in blood.

"Araedhelm," Anborn said warningly.

"I _said _let go."

"Araedhelm," Anborn repeated sternly.

"Anborn, let go of my arm—"

"_Lieutenant_."

He didn't have to raise his voice much to get a reaction from Araedhelm, not using that tone of voice. Araedhelm stopped mid-struggle, instantly paying attention to the sound of his title being spoken not as a request, but as a command.

"That's much better, Lieutenant," Anborn said with satisfaction, while silence continued to reign.

"I never thought you'd pull rank on me like this, _Captain_…" Araedhelm muttered.

Anborn's couldn't help but soften his tone, now that he had the other man's attention. He knew the fierce loyalty that drove Araedhelm, and admired it.

"I would have preferred it you'd given me your attention willingly, but since that seems impossible, I _will _pull rank on you if that's what it takes."

Silence. Araedhelm glared at him uncooperatively.

Undaunted—or at least _appearing_ undaunted—Anborn continued calmly, "Thorongil is in prison under serious charges."

"Serious _charges_? Now there are more than _one_? Are these imaginary charges growing as we speak?"

"Lower your voice, Lieutenant, there's no need to shout. No, Thorongil's main charge still remains treason. One of the ways Lord Eothald believes he had been…scheming, was by…" Anborn had to struggle over the last words. They were painful, but they had to be said, and it would be better coming from him. At least he hoped it would be better. Quietly, he finished, "by… attempting to seduce the Queen."

He watched Araedhelm blink a couple of times, his eyes full of disbelief, then, sure enough, his face began to turn red with anger. Moments ago, Anborn had actually thought he'd felt Araedhelm relax under his grip. Now, however, that was certainly not the case. Araedhelm's shoulder was positively rigid beneath his fingers, his whole body straining with the desire to throttle Eothald.

Anborn watched the red-faced lieutenant and sighed. Time for strategy number two. With a small push, he released Araedhelm.

"Very well. Commit suicide if you wish. It is all the same to me, and as you pointed out, it's your head that's at stake, not mine. I won't interfere if you wish to go get yourself killed."

Araedhelm shot him a suspicious glance, but straightened his tunic and stormed past him. Anborn might have something up his sleeve, but he wasn't about to wait around and see what that might be.

"Of course if you _do _go charging in their blindly with the sole intent of infuriating Lord Eothald, you may end up getting Captain Thorongil killed as well as yourself…" Anborn commented, his voice casual.

Araedhelm whirled on him. "What do you mean by that?"

"What I mean by that, my dear Lieutenant, is that Eothald is not in his right mind." Anborn's voice took on its former intensity, though he spoke quietly to avoid being overheard. "What I mean by that, is that he is acting quite…irrational—and what I mean by _that_, is that he is lashing out at Thorongil. Those who claim to be Thorongil's friends might do well to bite their tongues and walk softly, if only to spare _him _pain."

The redness drained from Araedhelm's face, although his expression was still battling between anger and concern. He looked desperately at Anborn. "Are you saying… Has…he been hurt?"

Anborn stepped forward and put a hand on Araedhelm's shoulder once more, this time only a gesture of support. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that. I don't know, since I wasn't there." He scanned Araedhelm's weathered face, lined deeply with worry. "All I'm saying is that we can't take the risk. We don't know what Eothald might do, at this point. We have to be cautious."

Araedhelm nodded numbly, feeling the bitter pang of defeat. As his anger began to cool, he realized the rashness of his actions. Anborn had only been trying to help him. Anborn was _always _doing the logical, reasonable, calm thing. The man hardly seemed to be ruffled by anything… As far as Araedhelm was concerned, having Thorongil arrested for treason was one of the biggest shocks he could think of, and yet here Anborn stood, as if it was an everyday occurrence.

Anborn seemed forever to be an enigma to him. Obviously the man had feelings on many subjects, as strong as any man's, but he always controlled them so completely, it was bewildering.

Biting his lip, Araedhelm slowly met Anborn's composed gaze. "I lost myself for a moment there, didn't I?"

"Several, actually."

Araedhelm bit his lip harder. He was wonderful at rushing head-long into situations like this. Apologizing for his actions afterwards wasn't always quite so easy.

"No need to apologize. Thorongil is blessed to have a lieutenant like you. Even if you do need a little…cooling down every now and then."

Araedhelm crossed his arms. "Well don't think you've cooled me down yet, Captain. You have precious little time to come up with an idea of how we're going to help Thorongil, before I'll go right back to were we were—bashing in a couple of heads. Starting with _Lord _Eothald."

Anborn ran a hand over his face. "I'm thinking, Lieutenant, I'm thinking…"

**---o—oOo—o---**

The traitor was locked away. The queen was safely in her rooms, watched by two of his well-trusted guards. Heolstor had personally assured himself of their trustworthiness. Everything was under control. Then why was he so terrified? The more Eothald tried to assure himself, the more he paced, and the more questions bombarded him. They were relentless, and accusing. What had he been so angry about? What had possessed him to imprison Thorongil? As his momentary rage began to melt, uneasiness took its place.

"My Lord?"

The sudden appearance of Heolstor at his side nearly made him jump in surprise.

"Captain Heolstor," he answered, in a thin voice.

Heolstor's brow furrowed in concern. "Is something the matter, my Lord? You look troubled."

The crisp reply was forming on his lips before he had a chance to think of a reply, "No."

Heolstor's brow furrowed further. "Perhaps you are merely…concerned over this matter with Captain Thorongil?"

Eothald swallowed hard. "Well, naturally I'm…concerned." Did Heolstor suspect something? Was he accusing him? Was that suspicion he saw gleaming in the other man's eyes? "Why do you speak of the matter? Surely I have a right, if I suspect a man, to put him in the dungeons. It's not as if I had him summarily executed or something—there will be a trial. I am a fair man, and the arrest of Captain Thorongil was not made on some whim of mine."

Eothald had the insecure feeling that he was arguing just as much with himself over all these points, as he was with Heolstor. He'd taken rather rash physical moves, and now his mind seemed to be requiring convincing.

Despite his own need to argue over all these points for his own sake, Heolstor appeared not to need all the convincing that he'd automatically assumed would be required.

"Please, my Lord… I understand."

Eothald caught himself just in time, as he was about to launch out into a whole new set of explanations for his actions. "You…understand?" he asked hesitantly. Valar above—he wished that _he _understood all this.

Heolstor nodded. "You did what you had to do."

Eothald felt his suspicions re-aroused. "And what is this thing that you think I 'had to do'?"

"Why, my Lord, what every man in a position of your importance and responsibility must do," Heolstor replied, guileless truth in his voice.

Eothald's suspicions dropped somewhat, but he asked cautiously, "And what would that be?"

"To deal justice, my Lord. If you suspect someone, even a Captain or Lord, of treason, then it is your duty to deal with them, no matter how painful it might be. You have done that bravely, despite the unpopularity of that duty."

Eothald relaxed. He'd said those exact words many times over in his head, but he still couldn't quite bring himself to believe them. Now, here was someone else telling him the same thing. He'd done the only thing he could…

"You did the only thing you could," Heolstor echoed his thoughts.

Eothald looked up. "I did?" He hadn't meant it to be a question, but it slipped out as such.

"You did," Heolstor assured him.

Eothald found himself becoming increasingly confused. He hadn't felt…real, for lack of a better word. The past couple of hours, in particular, seemed dream-like. It was as if he'd been there, watching, not actually participating. And yet he knew that he himself had been the one to accuse Thorongil, and have him imprisoned. _Gods…_ he thought, with a swell of panic. _I'm holding the queen in her rooms, under guard… _That thought signaled the end to rationality. What had done? He was insane. He turned desperately to Heolstor.

"Thorongil isn't a traitor."

Heolstor looked worriedly at him. "I beg your pardon, my Lord, what was that?"

"I said, Thorongil _isn't_ a traitor. I am out of my mind…" Eothald clenched his hands into fists, as a sweat broke out on his brow. "I don't know what I was doing—I can't be in my right mind. I can't be trusted…"

"My Lord, I—"

"No, Heolstor, you must listen to me—I can't be trusted! Something's wrong with me. I know Thorongil is innocent…and yet, I just had him arrested. I-I just can't seem to think clearly anymore. Sometimes it's as if it's not really _me _ordering all these things. You must help me. Lock me in my rooms, and don't let me out, no matter what I say. Please…"

Heolstor took Eothald's arm. "Lord Eothald, come sit down. You look exhausted." He led him over to one of the chairs that lined the long table, and pressed him down onto one of the chairs.

"No, something's wrong with…me…" Eothald protested weakly.

"You must not say such things, my Lord. You have not lost your sanity. The strain of all these sudden responsibilities is merely catching up with you. You are not accustomed to making such choices. Do not try so hard to figure all this out… You have followed your instincts, and your suspicions, and done what had to be done. You are merely tired. Responsibilities such as these wear on a man."

Eothald turned hopeful eyes on Heolstor. Something about the captain was overpoweringly calming. Perhaps he had merely overworked himself. "Yes… I am very…very tired."

"And who wouldn't be?" Heolstor picked up the goblet of wine that rested on the table beside him. "Here, my Lord, drink this."

Eothald didn't hesitate. He was tired beyond belief, and a glass of wine sounded suddenly very inviting. He took the goblet, and took a long, slow draft of it. A shiver ran down his spine, and then, gradually, a tingling warmth began to spread over him.

"Feeling better, my Lord?"

Eothald nodded dumbly, as the warmth increased, almost suffocating in its strength. He felt stronger, as if new life had been infused into his veins, and his heart felt lighter, as well. His worries of a moment ago vanished, and a subtle confidence crept back into the corners of his mind. He looked up at Heolstor with the eyes of a different man.

"That wine is…"

Heolstor smiled. "The best, as always."

Eothald nodded, a wondering smile on his face. "I can tell that much, even though I'm not a connoisseur, such as yourself."

"Don't discount yourself, you may have a natural ability to taste quality, and tell it apart from common drink. Here, have another glass."

Heolstor's smile increased as he turned his back on Eothald to reach for the pitcher. So easy. So incredibly, ridiculously, shamefully easy. The way Eothald fell prey to his traps, without any effort on his own part, almost made him feel guilty. Almost. He knew better than to let down his guard, or become over-confident, but he had to laugh just a little at how easy it was.

Did this man have _no _backbone whatsoever? He had to give him some amount credit for the small fight he had put up, just a moment ago. He might actually be beginning to figure things out, or at least he definitely suspected something was wrong. In the future, he would have to keep him more heavily sedated. Even a fool such as Eothald could ruin his plans.

Reducing his smile until it was merely pleasant, Heolstor turned with the pitcher, and refilled Eothald's goblet with wine. It was, indeed, "the very best" wine—mixed with the very best of his drug collection. So far, the potion was serving his purpose quite well.

Metalen was not an herb for amateurs. It required knowledge, as well as a great deal of skill. Even he, who considered himself an expert, had had to practice creating the mixture for over month before he'd been ready to put it into use. Of course, the only test subjects he'd had to practice on had been two outcast Dunlendings—quite a feat, considering who they'd been called stupid _by_. All the mind-controlling properties of Metalen _seemed _to have been effective on them, but, in all honesty, it had occasionally been challenging to tell the difference before and after. Once he'd finally made them moredull-witted than before, it was time to try it out for real.

He'd started using it on Eothald gradually and, admittedly, with trepidation. Really, Dunlendings simply couldn't be a fair comparison to a normal human when it came to testing mind-drugs. However, he needen't have worried. Eothald was far more susceptible than he would have dared to dream. Eothald couldn't often make up his mind for himself, so he usually allowed others that privilege. Not a wise option, as his friends warned him, but their words of advice obviously hadn't been acted upon. Heolstor couldn't have hand-picked a better weakness for him to have.

The man didn't lack brains so much as he lacked backbone. Heolstor could hardly believe how easy it had been to talk him into joining him at a game of chess at least once a week. After the invitation was accepted, it wasn't hard at all to convince him to drink a glass or two of fine wine. Eothald hadn't looked like he really _wanted _to play chess, or drink the wine—at first—but it hadn't been hard to sway him.

And so the ritual had begun. Every time they met in his rooms, Heolstor painstakingly increased his intake of the drug. It hadn't taken long for noticeable results.

"S'very…good…wine…"

The slurred voice brought him out of his reverie. He turned a pleasant smile on Eothald, although he realized that, by now, he could do just about anything he liked, and Eothald would neither notice, or comprehend. For appearance's sake, however, he would keep up his act. There was no telling who might see him—the _real _him. It was unlikely, but not impossible, and unless a thing was impossible, he wasn't going to risk it at this stage.

After his brief, hardly intelligible statement, Eothald lapsed back into a lethargic state, his mind drifting back into a foggy state of contentment. He listed dangerously to one side of his chair, with one arm resting on the table, fingers curled non-committaly around the goblet.

Heolstor intercepted the now-mostly-empty drinking vessel, taking it and the pitcher over to one of the windows and quickly tossing their contents outside, before setting them back on the table. A shame, really to waste such fine wine… But there could be no evidence whatsoever, and _he_ wasn't about to drink it. The idea of leaving it for some poor, unsuspecting lord was highly amusing, if not practical.

He'd rid himself of the evidence just in time, for not a minute later, he heard hurried footsteps outside the door. With only seconds to compose himself, Heolstor stepped back from the table, and readjusted his expression. He'd planned on drugging Eothald, and then getting him back to his room as quickly as possible. Fate appeared to have other ideas. There was no point in arguing with Fate, however, and Heolstor didn't falter in the face of the unexpected.

-o0o-

Forcing his cramped fingers to finish the last line, Ecthelion squinted, forcing his blurry vision to focus on the parchment as he painstakingly wrote the last line. He scrawled his signature in record time, blotted the ink, folded the parchment, dripped wax to hold it, and, finally, sealed it. Releasing a long breath, he slumped back into his chair, rotating his aching shoulders.

Another long list of documents finished, and the last of his "official" worries done for the day. There was only one last problem to see to. Or was it a problem? The question had been battling for his attention all day. As his mind drifted back to the topic, his eyes also drifted back to the opened letter on his desk. He picked it up, slowly re-reading it for what must have been at least the third time that day.

It was a personal letter from Thengel, King of Rohan. That, in and of itself, was nothing unusual. He and Thengel had been keeping up a correspondence for years. In his younger days, when his father, Fengel, had ruled Rohan, Thengel had lived in Gondor for a number of years. He'd been very successful in the army, and had met and married his wife while in Lossarnach. He loved Gondor, and Ecthelion knew it had torn his heart to have to leave it. He'd become very fond of the younger prince, and it had torn at his own heart as well to see him leave.

Their friendship had remained strong, even though they were almost constantly parted because of the distance, and because of their duties. Although often slowed down, due to the same responsibilities, their correspondence continued, and the length of their letters grew.

Ecthelion smiled softly as he thought of Thengel. It had been so long since the last time he'd seen him, or at least it _felt _like a long time. He'd grown up quickly under the load of kingship, and he could hardly now be recognized for the young prince he'd first known him as.

And then there was Théoden. He was growing up so quickly in-between the Steward's infrequent visits to Rohan, and every time he saw the boy again he found him looking more and more like his father. And acting like him, too. Thengel would be hard-put to reign him in until he was old enough to join the soldiers.

Ecthelion ran his eyes across the words on the parchment he held in his hand, shaking his head. It _was _from Thengel. The same handwriting, the same topics, and signed at the end with his familiar signature. But, somehow, something felt completely wrong about it. It wasn't _what _the letter said, as much as _how_ it was said.

Some of the sentences sounded brisk and stiff, almost to the point of rudeness. The letter didn't strike him as having Thengel's usual warm tone of voice, but was instead replaced by a formality that he simply couldn't understand. Had he said something? Thinking back upon his last letter to Thengel, he couldn't for the life of him remember having said anything that could be considered offensive. Besides, in all the years he'd known him, Thengel had not been a man to take offence easily. When he was offended, he came right out and said so. He wouldn't have given him the cold shoulder, he was sure of it.

The only other likelihood he could think of was that something had happened to Thengel. Perhaps something he couldn't, or didn't wish to, discuss? He kept running through the list of possibilities. Could it be something personal? Maybe something was wrong with Morwen or Théoden. He shoved that idea away quickly. Thengel would have told him about something like that.

Maybe it was something on a larger scale, something affecting Rohan at large. That theory seemed a little more plausible, but it only answered his questions vaguely. Politically, there were many things that could have possibly gone wrong. None of those possibilities was comforting.

Setting the letter down, he took out fresh parchment, and picked up a clean quill. That was as far as he got for the next fifteen minutes. He sat there, and he sat there, and he ran the quill feather against his chin, and sat some more. The white emptiness of the page seemed to glare at him dauntingly, and all his determination to say something—_anything_—seemed to evaporate. Finally, out of the desperate hope that it might magically produce some inspiration, he dipped the quill into the ink stand and poised it above the paper.

_Thengel,_

So far, so good. He shook his head, chuckling. No, _so far_, all he'd done was address the letter. So far, so _bad_.

He had to do this, he had to ask Thengel directly, but how to phrase it? Should he just come right out and ask him what in Arda had gotten into him? There had to be subtle, gentler way of saying it. If there was, hecertainly couldn't think of it, not even given another five minutes of thought.

He groaned in frustration, once again falling back against his chair to stare with annoyance at his desk, and the papers scattered across its surface. There was simply no easy way to ask questions of this nature, not in writing. No matter how he said it, it would either sound accusing or hostile.

Once again, he sat forward, quill in hand. Well, he had to startsomewhere. So he started at the beginning, addressing every subject _except _the one question that was burning in his mind. By the time he'd reached the end of the letter, having exhausted all the other topics of their conversation, cowardice had still kept him from saying a word about his worries. He ran a hand distractedly through his dark shoulder-length hair, and then, hesitantly, began to write the last line.

Who knew? Perhaps nothing was wrong at all, and his fears were unfounded.

* * *

**To be continued...**

**Because this site is being so difficult, I'm afraid I can't garantee that the next update will be on time either. ****Remember: keep checking here, and on my LJ, for updates and news. ;) **

**Oh, and sorry for no Thorongil this time--he will be coming back in, angst 'n all, in the next chapter. -eg- Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed!**


	12. Persuasion

**_See first chapter for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes. _**

**A/N (sometimes, in regards to this particular author, best known as Apologetic Notes): -cringes- I'm so sorry, I've taken over a week yet again. This time of year is dotted with vacations (I'm blessed, I know—but it can be chaotic), and although this one was less than five days, I ran into another problem. Dear sister/editor, Imbecamiel, is starting to get more actual, honest-to-goodness PAID jobs as an editor. –confetti- I'm very, very happy for her, but at the same time it means she sometimes has less time to do impromptu jobs for poor little penniless-starving-artist-fanfic-author me. But…she loves me, and isn't done doing FREE freelance jobs for her beloved lil' sister. :) So, that's my excuse for the week. By next week my wonderful, too-good-to-be-true editor and I will be getting back on track (for the time being, at least). **

**Here's a nice long chapter to reward you for your patience (not that you had a choice, LOL). More Araedhelm-on-the-rampage, but there's some more Thorongil…**

* * *

**Chapter 12: Persuasion **

Anborn followed Araedhelm as he methodically searched Meduseld for Eothald. No one seemed to have seen him for the last hour, and they'd looked into most of the likely places, but Araedhelm couldn't be dissuaded. He was going to talk to Eothald, and he was going to talk to Eothald _now_. Calmly, of course, and without wringing his neck or decapitating him. No, he was going to have a civil…discussion with him.

Anborn had agreed reluctantly, but was beginning to regret having done so. After all, Araedhelm wasn't exactly the embodiment of calmness, especially not at the moment. Although, he had to admit, the lieutenant had cooled off considerably since he'd first received the news of his captain's arrest. His face wasn't bright red, and he'd released his white-knuckled grip on his sword hilt. He still strode rather briskly, but he wasn't _running_, which, for Araedhelm, was an improvement over his previous state.

"Where has that coward sulked off to?" Araedhelm growled, as he pushed open a door, and was confronted with emptiness.

Anborn grimaced. He had been doing better with his temper just a few minutes ago… He followed Araedhelm to the next room. "Remember Lieutenant," he said cautiously, "we are finding Lord Eothald, so that we can discuss the matter of Captain Thorongil's incarceration in a _calm_, _composed, _and _sensible _manner…"

Araedhelm turn glinting blue eyes on him, and barked, "Yes. Of course. Once I find that coward…" The anger eased from his voice, as he felt Anborn's despairing gaze on him. "Once I find that coward…I can…"

"Yes?" Anborn prompted expectantly.

Araedhelm halted, his hand resting on the door to the council room. "I can...talk to him—about Thorongil."

Anborn smiled tensely. "Good. Just remember, 'talking' does not require either your fists or your sword."

"Don't be ridiculous, Captain," Araedhelm muttered between his teeth, scowling.

"I don't believe I _was_ being ridiculous, Lieutenant."

Not deigning to reply to that, Araedhelm turned the knob, and pushed the door open. He was half expecting to find it empty. After all, the council room was generally avoided once a council session was over. But the room wasn't empty. What's more, it was occupied by the very man he'd been looking for. Araedhelm hardly spared Captain Heolstor a look, as his attention was riveted on Eothald.

Anborn set a restraining hand on his shoulder—a gesture that had becoming increasingly common in the last hour or so. "Careful, Lieutenant, careful…" he whispered in his ear.

Holding himself back admirably, Araedhelm advanced unhurriedly towards the two men at the other end of the room. Anborn came to stand next to him, as he stopped a few steps away from Eothald.

"Lord Eothald." Bowing respectfully, Araedhelm addressed the slumped figure at the table, his voice deceptively neutral.

When Eothald didn't respond, Anborn looked to Heolstor questioningly. The other Captain was looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable with the situation, and shrugged helplessly.

Anborn cleared his throat. "My Lord…"

Eothald finally looked up, his eyes drifting from face to face. He nodded to them. "Ah, Captain Anborn, Lieutenant Araedhelm. Is there a problem?"

"I'm not sure, my Lord. We have…questions," Anborn spoke quickly, before Araedhelm could react to the rather callous question. After all, all of Meduseld knew that _something_ was most definitely wrong, with Thorongil having been imprisoned for treason. He looked scrutinizingly at the man before him. Surely Eothald knew just how much turmoil his actions were causing?

Eothald seemed to be rousing, although his eyes were still half-lidded and bored-looking. "Questions? Speak up, my Lords. What kind of questions?"

Again, Anborn inserted himself before Araedhelm could. "Questions regarding your decision to imprison Thorongil." He eyed the empty goblet that sat at Eothald's elbow. That might explain a few things, he thought with mounting disgust. What kind of man was he, to shirk his duties to drink? Eothald was prone to give in easily to persuasion, but if Heolstor's discomfort was any indication, he was just as disturbed at the sight as the rest of them. Araedhelm was too preoccupied with warring anger and fear to consider any other possible reasons for Heolstor's apparent distress, much less look closely enough to see how superficial his expression was.

Eothald sighed wearily. "Oh, _that_…"

The indifference evident in his tone was more than Araedhelm could bear to take in silence. His stomach was churning with the fierce desire to disobey all promises made to Anborn and take things into his own hands. Fingers clenching and unclenching by way of venting his physical urges, he constrained himself to a verbal attack. For the time being. He pounced on Eothald's last word before Anborn could come up with a diplomatic response. "Yes, _that_. I want to know what grounds you had to throw Captain Thorongil into prison."

Anborn could have groaned. He was the idiot in this situation, not Araedhelm. What on earth had he been thinking? That Araedhelm was just going to calm down and act reasonable? That would be the day. He should have allowed Araedhelm several _days _to cool off before allowing him to go anywhere near Eothald. Where Thorongil's honor or well-being was concerned, Araedhelm was as innately protective as a faithful guard dog. A guard dog who was looking ready to do some serious damage at the moment. Stepping forward in order to place himself slightly in front of Araedhelm, he did his best to look apologetic. He didn't feel apologetic by any means, but in situations where Araedhelm was innately protective, he was innately sane. Perhaps it was Eru's sovereign balancing act. It was grating for him as well, however. This whole affair was extremely trying. At the moment, he himself felt angry enough with Eothald to yell, and yet here he was: the only person standing between Araedhelm and murder.

Ironically, Eothald—the source of all the turbulent emotions in the room—appeared to be the least effected. He actually smiled when Anborn began to mumble apologies for his "head-strong friend".

"All is well, Captain Anborn," he said, eyeing Araedhelm with amusement. "Our head-strong Lieutenant here has every right to question my decision."

Araedhelm looked less than pleased at being referred to as "head-strong", but bewilderment prevailed. "I…do?" He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Eothald.

"But of course! Whatever is on your mind, Lieutenant?"

Anborn and Heolstor watched the conversation with trepidation, but held their silence.

Araedhelm pulled himself out of his short-lived confusion at Eothald's sudden benign and ingenuous manner. "My captain is what is on my mind. My question already stands: what grounds did you have to put him in prison?"

Eothald didn't falter in his response. "That's quite simply answered. He has committed treason, and the law says he must pay the price."

A deathly silence fell over the room. Anborn could actually _feel _the anger building inside of Araedhelm. The damage was done. It wasn't just what Eothald had said, it was the way he had said it. Such a statement practically begged for a rebuttal, one which _certain_ parties in the room would be more than glad to supply. It wouldn't be long before Araedhelm erupted. Anborn noted with mounting anxiety that sometime during the escalating conversation Araedhelm's fingers had returned to his sword hilt. The lieutenant wasn't one for politics, he was one for loyalty and serving leaders worthy of being followed. At times like these, Araedhelm lived in a black-and-white world where violence was justifiable, no matter the recipient, or the residual consequences to himself, just as long as they'd done something to truly deserve it. Eothald met requirements.

"Treason! _Treason_? That's all I seem to be hearing this morning. Treason—and the fact that Thorongil had been arrested because of it. What I want to hear is an explanation!" If Araedhelm wasn't releasing his pent-up rage via his sword, he was certainly doing so via his loud and booming tone of voice.

"Now Lieutenant, don't get so excited. An explanation is easy enough to give, and you shall have it."

This time, Eothald's maddening complacency wasn't enough to calm Araedhelm, but he continued nonetheless, "All the reasons that surround Captain Thorongil's arrest are…painful. I don't know what details you've heard, but I have suspected him of treasonous acts for some time, and it all culminated today in his blatant abuse of the King's trust."

"I assume you speak of the Queen?" Araedhelm ground the question out between his teeth. It was more of a dare than a question.

"Yes, I speak of the Queen. Or, rather, what your Captain was attempting do _to_ the Queen."

"That's a lie—you don't know anything of what you speak!" Araedhelm's next words were softened by a complete, and absolute trust. "Captain Thorongil would sooner diethan attempt to seduce _any_ woman like that. He would never attempt to steal another man's wife. Certainly never the Queen. He wouldn't betray Thengel. If you think he would, than you know very little about him indeed."

Eothald shook his head condescendingly. "Oh Lieutenant, I really do pity you. I see he has fooled you, too. The Queen is as blind as you. Alas, many seem to side with him…traitor though he be."

"If you call him 'traitor' one more time…"

"Before you begin threatening me, you might want to listen to what I have to say."

Anborn sighed, as the conversation heated up another notch. At the rate he was going, Araedhelm was going to join Thorongil in the dungeons. Perhaps that was what he was aiming for. The only thing that kept him from grabbing him and forcing him to back down was Eothald's easygoing, all-forgiving attitude. Anborn had learned how to read the moods of rulers, and Eothald wasn't nearly at the end of his rope. Araedhelm hadn't pushed him beyond his limits yet. In fact, Eothald actually looked as if he was enjoying the whole episode.

However exasperated Anborn might be with Araedhelm, he was grateful to be learning so much from Eothald's own lips. Despite that, he decided that if the conversation moved up _another _notch, he would have to step in. He could sense Heolstor behind him, shifting agitatedly. Together, the two of them could end this any time they wanted. Of course, ending this might include knocking Araedhelm over the head and forcibly hauling him away to a nice, secure location. For now, he would listen and learn as much as he could, as Araedhelm proceeded to launch out on another line of questioning.

"Why? All you have against him is unfounded accusations. Where is your proof?"

Eothald wasn't at all disturbed by the question. "Proof about his advances on the Queen is unnecessary, as I myself was an eyewitness. What? You don't believe me, Lieutenant? I saw it with my own eyes. I set out this morning only to speak with Thorongil, approach him with my suspicions. When I found him in the dark recesses of the hall, with his arms around the Queen… Well, it would have been wrong for me _not _to arrest him on the spot. Wouldn't you agree?"

Araedhelm, quite visibly, _didn't _agree. "I don't know what you saw, but if Captain Thorongil _did _have his arms around the Queen, then he had them there for a good and honorable purpose." Again, there was that unwavering trust, transparent and earnest even through his anger.

"Oh, he had a purpose alright. I think you know what he was doing as well as I do. Come, don't look so hostile… We should be friends, not enemies. You are a good man, Lieutenant, and I know you want the best for Rohan. That is my goal as well. Supporting and abetting traitors is not the way to help your king. You must get over your emotional attachment to Captain Thorongil, and start thinking about this whole situation from a more logical point of view."

"Yes, I want the best for Rohan. As does Thorongil."

"My, you are stubborn, Lieutenant. You just need time. Soon, you will see him as I do."

"What other proof do you have against him?" Araedhelm questioned flatly.

Eothald sighed. "Nothing substantial—yet. I have my suspicions, and in time I will prove them."

"With _what_? Secret letters full of plots and conspiracies? Or perhaps a correspondence between him and an orc?" Araedhelm smirked.

Eothald only should his head in a gesture of superiority and pity. "Given time, I will find something to prove his guilt conclusively, even if it's not something quite so…dramatic as his personal correspondence with an orc. Until I can gather enough evidence to have him hung, I think you will find him effectively secured. I would suggest you do not allow your temper to interfere with justice."

Anborn lunged for Araedhelm's arm, pulling him back. The conversation had just gone up that final notch, and it was time to check it before things got out of hand. He had enough practice in diplomacy to cover his own feelings with a diplomatic face, and address Eothald with a rigidly composed demeanor.

"Thorongil will be tried in due time when the King returns." Anborn hadn't meant for it to come out sounding so much like a threat. But he wouldn't have taken it back if he'd had the chance.

He gripped Araedhelm's arm tightly, and began to draw him back toward the door. There was still a small chance they could leave this room in a dignified manner. But it was not to be. Araedhelm stood as immovable as a cave troll struck by the sun.

He was considering abandoning ship, and saving his own head, when Araedhelm said quietly—and with surprising self-possession, "Wait." Not giving Anborn the chance to agree or disagree, he spoke again to Eothald. "Let me see him."

Araedhelm's bold words once again caused the room to fall into an apprehensive silence, as they waited to see how Eothald would react. Even Araedhelm seemed to have realized the danger of his position, tensing for the expected blow. Finally it came.

"Of course, Lieutenant. I don't see why not. I'll have the guards escort you there immediately." Eothald smiled. "I assume you do wish to see him _immediately_?"

Anborn and Araedhelm exchanged incredulous glances, and Araedhelm stammered a weak, "Yes…as soon as possible."

Eothald's smile widened. "Good. Captain Heolstor, would you please call the guards?"

Heolstor nodded, gratefully escaping the room. Two guards soon appeared in the doorway.

"Lead these two gentlemen to the dungeons. They wish to have a word with Captain Thorongil. Give them as long as they require," Eothald commanded the guards. He gestured for Anborn and Araedhelm to follow them. "Go, talk to your Captain, Lieutenant. I have nothing to hide. The question is, does he?"

**---o—oOo—o---**

A cold, wet draft sent shivers down Araedhelm's spine as he and Anborn descended the treacherous stairs that led down into the dungeon. One of the guards—an extremely bored-looking individual—held a torch aloft to light their path. Cell after dirty cell was revealed in the fire's orange glow. At last, the guards stopped.

Araedhelm wasted no time, snatching the torch from the disinterested guard, and moving toward the cell. Behind him, he could sense the guards moving off to the end of the corridor, and Anborn standing next to him, but his entire focus was on the man in the cell before him. If anyone had dared to hurt him… The threat remained unfinished in his thoughts, as he caught the first glimpse of his captain.

"Captain?" he asked anxiously, grasping one of the bars with his hand, and at the same time moving the torch forward to better illuminate the small cell.

Anborn stepped forward. "I hope you are well, Captain?" His choice of words was habitually formal, but his tone was full of genuine concern

Thorongil straightened slowly from his hunched position against the wall. There was little light in the dungeons, and he was having difficulty adapting to the sudden brightness of the torch, but he could recognize the voices easily enough. He pulled himself up further, wishing for a free hand to ward of some of the harshness of light, as he squinted against it. "Yes," he finally replied. "I am well enough, considering the circumstances…"

Anborn nodded in acceptance of the answer, although his eyes traveled over his bruised face with skepticism. He would leave all the worrying over Thorongil's health to Araedhelm, who would do plenty for the both of them. Sensing Araedhelm's need for privacy with his captain, and feeling rather awkward himself, he quietly retreated to a more discreet distance.

"Are you sure you're well, Captain?" Araedhelm reiterated, knowing that the question was stupid on multiple levels. For one thing, Thorongil obviously wasn't "well", and for another, in all his acquaintance, he'd never known Thorongil to admit he was anything _but_ "well". However, the bruises that covered Thorongil's face had certainly not escaped his attention. Even though Thorongil was upright and able to talk, Araedhelm knew it didn't mean he was anywhere near being alright. The man had stamina that refused to stay within the bounds of reality or reason.

"Don't worry so much, my friend. I may be in prison, but I'm far from dead." Thorongil struggled to rise and cross over to where his lieutenant stood. It was proving quite difficult, with his arms pinned tightly behind his back, and thus unable to help him balance or stand. Pushing himself forward, he rocked forward onto his knees, and from there awkwardly gained his feet.

Araedhelm scowled. "Are you so dangerous that they fear to cut your bonds once you are safely behind bars?"

Thorongil's voice was full of wry humor, "Well, I am a dangerous man now, Lieutenant. A spy and a criminal. Or so they would have me believe. Though, I never could quite see myself as either…"

At one time, Araedhelm might have found such unconcerned ramblings on his captain's part amusing. Right now, however, there was knot of anxiety forming in the pit of his stomach that wouldn't allow him to relax. "It's serious, Captain. They're charging you with treason." Thorongil sobered at his words, but not nearly enough in his opinion.

"I know, Araedhelm, but there is not much I can do in my defense until the King returns. Thengel will hear my case, and give me justice. Until then, I must be content to wait."

"In this dank hole?" Araedhelm asked, eyeing the small cell with disgust.

"Dank hole?" Thorongil scanned his dismal surroundings, as if noticing them for the first time. "I think I can survive a little dankness."

Araedhelm shifted impatiently. "It could still be nearly a _week_ before Thengel-King returns. And you intend to just sit here, and allow that swine to falsely accuse you?"

"Araedhelm, I don't think I really have choice in the matter," Thorongil pointed out.

Araedhelm clenched and unclenched his jaw several times before responding. "I don't see why you have to pay the price for his stupidity."

"Oh, I wouldn't blame Lord Eothald of stupidity. He seems to actually have _quite_ a case against me… No, I don't think the word 'stupidity' does him justice, Lieutenant."

"Well, I could think of few more that woulddo him _perfect_ justice," Araedhelm said darkly. "And I'm not so certain his actions couldn't be described as stupidity. Who does he think he is, throwing you in prison? He's only just been given power, and already he's throwing Rohan's best captain into prison on a whim."

"First of all, I'm hardly Rohan's best, and secondly, he doesn't acts as if this is a 'whim'— "

"Captain!" Araedhelm interrupted with evident frustration. "Whose side or you on? _His_, or your own?"

Knowing it would only exasperate his lieutenant further, Thorongil subdued his amusement. "Naturally, my own. I am not saying he is right, Araedhelm, or that I agree with him. Eru knows I'd rather be in me own rooms enjoying a decent meal than down here. What I am trying to say is that Eothald is not to be taken so lightly, and his claims are serious. Although, I don't see how he could have any evidence against me, because there is simply nothing to have evidence _about_."

Araedhelm licked his lips nervously. "Speaking of evidence, Captain. There is one thing I've been meaning to ask you."

"Yes?"

"It's about something Eothald said. He claims to have seen you… with your arms around the Queen." Araedhelm hurried to add, "I don't believe of it, of course, Captain, but I thought you should know—"

"You know, it is rather biased of you to just assume Lord Eothald is a liar, Lieutenant."

"But Captain!" Araedhelm was reaching his wits' end. "He _is _a liar. And not only does such a statement slander you, it mars the _Queen's_ honor as well."

"Lord Eothald may well be a liar on many counts, but this once he is right. When he last saw me, I did have the Queen in my arms."

For this shocking statement, Araedhelm couldn't find suitable words. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but he found he suddenly couldn't say a word. When he looked Thorongil in the face, his confusion only multiplied.

Eyes twinkling, Thorongil began to laugh quietly. "Oh, Araedhelm… I don't think he could have caught me at a worse moment. Lady Morwen tripped, and I, of course, caught her. That was when we were 'discovered'."

Araedhelm's weathered face finally softened, as he too smiled.

Thorongil shook his head. "I have to admit, it must have looked perfectly incriminating." A steely look entered his silver eyes. "I could have forgiven Lord Eothald for arresting me. After all, it's his duty and privilege to be somewhat paranoid in the King's absence. I know that Thengel will see the truth when he returns, and I can bear the discomfort until then. However, the way he treated the Queen is inexcusable."

Araedhelm nodded. "Eothald cannot be himself—he is not the quiet, unobtrusive man I've known for all these years. _That_ Eothald would never have dared to keep the Queen in her rooms." At Thorongil's look of surprise, he added in a bitter voice, "Oh yes, he has kept her confined to her rooms from what I hear. Two guards stand outside her door."

Thorongil closed his eyes briefly, resting his forehead against the cool metal of the bars. "I do not think anyone knows what to make of this whole situation yet. _I_ certainly don't."

"The Queen must be feeling particularly helpless."

"Yes," Thorongil agreed quietly. "She's in a prison of a different nature, although, doubtless, no less restricting than mine." He opened his eyes again, meeting Araedhelm's. "Before he left, the King specifically asked me to watch over her. That is why I've been staying so close to her. I have no doubt now, that my actions have only given more possible credibility to Eothald's claims. But that can not be helped. I'm useless at the moment, and will continue to be so for who knows how long. You must do what I cannot. Watch out for Morwen, Araedhelm?"

"Of course, Captain, as much as I can. Though I don't know how much good I can do. Besides, I don't think she's the one in immediate danger. Eothald wouldn't dare harm her."

"No, I don't think so either. He had better not, or Thengel will see him hung—or worse."

Araedhelm's anger had dwindled for the time being, but in its wake his concern only continued to grow. "Captain, but what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Surely you're not—"

"Going to sit in this dank hole? My friend, this conversation is going in circles. I wasn't given a say in the matter, and I don't think they'd let me out, no matter how nicely I asked. You can try asking if you feel so inclined, but I have a feeling you'll get nothing but blank stares, and possibly an escort to a cell of your own."

Thorongil's light-hearted view of his situation had yet to rub off on Araedhelm. "You know what I mean, Captain." Araedhelm's attention continued to be drawn to the bruises that decorated his captain's face. "They haven't hurt you, have they?"

"No, Araedhelm, they haven't." Thorongil figured the lie was mostly true. A few scratches didn't constitute being "hurt," exactly. Well…being shoved down the stairs had hurt, but it mostly because it aggravated his earlier wound. He opted for and a vague and dismissive end, "As you can see, I'm doing well enough."

Araedhelm's expression showed the lack of any real belief in his claim. They'd played this game before, and he was getting good at reading Thorongil's mind. "What about your wound? It wasn't completely healed, and if they've—"

"Araedhelm, you need to stop worrying about me. Eothald doesn't have the authority to actually tryme, or do much about his suspicions. On the whole, the dungeons are a pretty safe place to be."

Araedhelm gave a begrudging smile. "Trust you to come up with something positive about _this_…"

Thorongil gave that particular grin that never failed to make him look about fifteen years younger, though it was somewhat hampered by his bedraggled appearance. "It could always be worse, Lieutenant."

Araedhelm sighed. "Aye, Captain, and one of these days it _is _going to be worse."

**---o—oOo—o---**

Thengel gratefully accepted the warm drink proffered him by Lord Mannalic, nodding his thanks as he settled back in his chair. He glanced over at a very wry-faced Silfren, who was similarly situated in comfort beside him. Neither one of them had failed to notice the way Mannalic had begun to wring his hands as he took his own seat. The small, grey-haired man was obviously distraught, and also obviously in much trepidation over what to say.

Silfren raised an eyebrow as he looked away from Thengel and took a sip of his own drink. Thengel rolled his eyes slightly as his councilor refused to break the uncomfortable silence. He knew that look, the one that said, "Well, Sire, what do you plan on doing about _this _situation?" As Silfren donned a look of unconcerned boredom, he made it equally clear that he was prepared to wait for his liege to make a decision—and wait a long time, if need be.

Well, what _was _he going to do about the situation? He was sorely tempted to close his eyes, take a nap, and see if he could beat his councilor at the waiting game. One look at Mannalic reminded him of the third party involved in this affair, and just how cruel it would be to make that third party wait any longer. He could just picture the way Mannalic would fidget and bite his lip were he to simply fall asleep without saying a word. Mannalic was embarrassed and worried. Not a good mixture of emotions in a man of his anxious nature.

Setting his drink down on the nearest table, Thengel sat up a little straighter in his chair, and cleared his throat. At the sudden noise, Mannalic's head jerked up as if he'd been stabbed. Thengel flinched. The man looked miserable. He'd best start talking before the man started crying on him... Not a pleasant thought.

"Well, Lord Mannalic," Thengel said casually, smiling kindly at the man. "We have had a most pleasant stay here, and my men and I thank you very much for your hospitality. Unfortunately, the time draws near for us to return to Meduseld."

Mannalic swallowed hard, before saying quietly, "Your Majesty is kind to use such phrasing…but I know better. Forgive me, my Lord, for putting you through so much trouble. You must think me a complete fool."

Thengel couldn't help but feel compassion for the small, hunched figure in the chair opposite him. Since their arrival in Halodawn, Lord Mannalic had certainly shown them around. After the incident in the barn, things hadn't quieted down as he'd hoped. Mannalic continued to see Crebain hiding in the woods and Wild Men crouching in the fields. There was no end to the wild goose chases he'd been led on over the course of their visit. He'd always considered himself a patient man, but now he was beginning to question that point. His feelings, upon being woken at dawn to investigate what turned out to be another "false alarm" had been anything but patient. They really had to leave this place, if not for Morwen's sake, then for the sake of his own sanity.

Sighing inwardly, he set about answering Mannalic in the gentlest way he could think of.

"No, I don't think you a fool at all, my friend. I've known you for a long time, and I wouldn't have appointed you to this duty unless I trusted you."

"I note the past tense," Mannalic observed, with a dry edge of bitterness. "I wouldn't blame you for not trusting me anymore, my Lord. I know very well what people are saying about me. You all think I've gone insane. Mad. Out of my mind."

Thengel hesitated, shooting his still-stoic councilor an annoyed glance. Now would have been a perfect time for him to have joined the conversation with a few well-chosen words. He was an advisor and councilor for a reason. Outwardly, Silfren didn't even appear to be paying attention to the conversation, so he crossed off that option.

Trying to catch Mannalic's eye, he said forcefully, "The King's opinion must surely count for something, and Ifor one, do not think you're insane, mad, _or _out of your mind."

He meant every word of it, too. Mannalic had always been—and remained—a very unique individual, but Thengel would never have considered giving him power of any kind if there had been any question in his mind about the man's sanity. Granted, he had considered suggesting Mannalic take an early retirement sometime in the near future, in order to keep _himself_, and possibly Anborn, from going insane. But, despite Mannalic's amazing ability to drive the most patient men insane, Thengel trusted him. If Mannalic wasn't actually seeing all the things he claimed to, then he himself at least believed he was seeing them. At least he could never accuse him of being too lazy, or of taking his position too lightly. And, aside from his occasionally too-vivid imagination when it came to "invaders" he really was an extremely competent and just manager of the power he had been given.

Mannalic listened to the King's words with downcast eyes. After the earnestness of what he'd said had sunk in, his hands began to fidget with renewed agitation, before he asked in an almost inaudible voice, "Well, if you don't think I'm insane, then what _do _you think I am?"

The question seemed to freeze Thengel's brain mid-thought. What _did _he think Mannalic was? Or, more importantly, what words could he use to tell the man to his face what he thought of him? Mannalic's eyes bored into him mercilessly. "I..." _Kings don't stammer_, he reminded himself firmly, and tried to look less uncomfortable.

"The King sees you as a friend, of course. A very good friend with a very good amount of sense, who has used all his energies to care for the people of Halodawn."

Thengel's eyes darted sideways to Silfren, who'd begun to speak in a calm, reassuring voice. _Well you took long enough about it... _he thought with irritation, as his councilor took charge of the situation.

"You are a man of integrity, my Lord, and you take care of Halodawn with the same care I'm sure the King himself would, if he had the time to personally oversee things." Silfren smiled. "Why else would he take the time to come and give you a personal visit?"

Thengel nodded his agreement. "I value your service, Mannalic."

Mannalic turned red at the praise, then a slow, sheepish smile spread over his face. "Thank you, your Majesty."

Thengel shot Silfren a meaningful glance. They'd bought a moment, but they still had to break it to Mannalic: there could be no more false alarms. Thengel simply couldn't afford to keep sending off men to Halodawn every few weeks, least of all Captain Anborn, the last of the willing victims.

"I am indebted to you for all these years of faithful service, my friend, but..." Thengel could hardly find the heart to go on, as he witnessed the way Mannalic's face fell at hearing the word "but"; however, Silren was pinning him with his unwavering gaze, and he knew he had to say the rest. He swallowed hard. "But... There is something I must ask of you. It is very difficult—"

"There is no need to say it, your Majesty," Mannalic interrupted in a surprisingly serine voice. "I know what you wish to ask of me. Or, rather, what you wish me _not _to do. And… I understand."

"You do?" Thengel asked uncertainly.

Mannalic's response was firm, and not a little self-degrading. "Yes, I understand. You can't afford to have me constantly using up Captain Anborn's time. I must stop my incessant and pointless alarms."

Thengel cringed inwardly at the wording, as well as the dejected tone they were expressed with. He'd greatly hoped to break the news to Mannalic more gently, but Mannalic was far too busy breaking the news to himself—and taking the whole situation very hard.

By now, he knew Silfren would be in over his head if he tried to say anything. Although Silfren knew how to give comfort, in his own, gruff way, patting people on the shoulder in an attempt to console wasn't exactly his strong point. The way personal, emotional scenes could put Silfren ill-at-ease more than almost anything usually amused Thengel; today, he just wished he could get some more help from his once again silent councilor. Councilors_ are supposed to give _council_ at moments like this…_ he thought irritably. He looked up when Mannalic began to speak in a clear, calm voice.

"Don't worry, your Majesty, I won't pester Meduseld any more with my problems. I shall…manage."

Thengel was stunned. This was exactly what he'd been hoping for. I no uncertain words, Mannalic had just promised to quit bothering him. Distasteful as the duty was, that had been his sole aim this night. He and Silfren had agreed that Mannalic had to understand their meaning clearly. In the end, he'd hardly needed to say anything himself. Mannalic knew, and had already accepted the fact to some degree.

However, now that he'd made the point, and had Mannalic's compliance, he didn't feel the relief he'd expected to feel. Of course, he couldn't help but feel guilty, watching the despondent man in front of him. But, somehow, that wasn't the source of his unease. Frustration filled him. All he'd wanted was to break the news to Mannalic as gently as possible and now he was having second thoughts, and even regret.

The whole matter was simple. Mannalic kept calling for help over ridiculous and nonexistent problems, and Anborn's incessant never-ending travels between Meduseld and Halodawn needed to come to an end. He wanted them to stop. Than why this sudden uncertainty? Why _wouldn't_ he want this ridiculous situation to be over? His mind supplied yet another round of questions, and extremely disconcerting ones at that. Was the situation ridiculous? Was there any basis for Mannalic's fears? He didn't like where that line of thought brought him at all.

* * *

**To be continued…**

**Again, sorry for the wait, I'm really trying to get back into gear, but I'm taking the time to touch up some things, and I don't want to rush the editing. Next chapter coming right up, sooner rather than later this time, God willing. ;) (I'm going to try updating on weekdays for a while, so look for an update Thursday-Friday-ish. I think. :P) **

**Thank you so much for the reviews! I'm feeling redundant, saying that over and over again, but I am sincerely grateful to those of you who've take the time to comment (and of course, as always, I'd love to hear from you all on this chapter as well)!**


	13. Twisted Every Way

_**See first chapter for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes.**_

**A/N: I have nothing to say...so I guess I won't say it. LOL.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 13: Twisted Every Way**

Heolstor looked sternly at the two men before him. "Now, don't overdo it." He looked particularly hard at the dark-haired man. "And don't let your enthusiasm show, Rador, or I'll use you as feed for the Crebain."

"Of course not, my Lord." Rador bowed his head deferentially, but his eyes gleamed with something akin to rebellion, albeit cautious rebellion. He feared and believed his leader's threats. They were not idle. But he wasn't intimidated by Heolstor.

Heolstor didn't ever consider trusting any of his men completely, but even if he had, he certainly wouldn't have trusted Rador. When he did trust one of his men with anything, it was usually Rador's older brother, Mehdal, or even Ceryn, the youngest of the three. Mehdal was, perhaps, the closest thing Heolstor had to a friend or confidant. Not that it showed, except in his occasional moments of weakness, when he trusted the man by supplying him with more information that he needed to know. In a non-personal way, he was missing Mehdal, or at least having his abilities close at hand. With Mehdal in the Westfold, personally seeing to it that none of the Dunlendings wandered off chasing the figurative random butterfly, he was left with only these two pitiful excuses for generals.

He scrutinized the men again. Rador was looking eager, and Ceryn was looking apprehensive. Neither of them was what he wanted. Where Ceryn was prone to occasional bouts of mercy, regret, and other such weaknesses, Rador went to the opposite extreme, possessing excessive cruelty and violent tendencies. Thus, he could never send Ceryn on any missions that would require resolution, nor Rador on assignments that might call for self-control and good timing. No, neither of them was the right mixture. Of the three brothers, only Mehdal came close to being that.

But Heolstor knew how to work with what he had, and these Dunlending-Rohirric cross-breeds had the overall mentality he needed most of all: they hated Rohan. Their hatred, and reasons for hatred, ran deep, as did their loyalty and debt to Heolstor. That, alone, would have kept Mehdal duty-bound to serve him any way he asked. However, their own personal vendetta against the Rohirrim gave Heolstor extra reassurance of their continual co-operation. He could care less for their pitiful history, and even more pitiful reasons for revenge, but strong emotions like hate could be used to great advantage, if channeled properly.

All these considerations cycled swiftly through his mind in a matter of seconds, but already, Rador was looking impatient. _Let the imbecile wait, _he thought with irritation. How Rador managed to be so clever one moment, and then so utterly stupid the next was beyond his comprehension. One thing was for sure, he was going to have to be taught patience, or he might single-handedly ruin everything.

"My Lord," Ceryn spoke respectfully, as always. The blond-haired general had received his looks mainly from his Rohirric blood, just as Rador had most obviously inherited his brutish looks from their Dunlending ancestry.

When Ceryn's voice trailed off, Heolstor asked impatiently, "You have a question, Ceryn?"

"Well…yes. I was just wondering, what _exactly _is it that we're to look for in Captain Thorongil's room?"

"We are to do exactly as our orders tell us to do. Search for incriminating evidence," Heolstor replied, pushing open the door to Thorongil's room.

"Then you don't have other…plans?" Ceryn asked, trying not to sound incredulous. In his experience, Heolstor almost always had additions to make to any orders given him by another. The most obvious course to everyone else never seemed to be quite so obvious to _him_.

Heolstor was tired of having to explain himself, but he knew than an ignorant man, fumbling around blindly, could be dangerous. "No," he said, getting to the point as briefly as possible. "I do not have any other plans. I have been discussing things with Lord Eothald, and he and I agree. Many of his objectives parallel with mine, as in this instance. For the time being, humiliating and incriminating Thorongil will be sufficient."

Recognizing the fact that he would receive no more information, Ceryn didn't question further, but fell to examining his surroundings. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was how to be meticulous. He thrived on mundane tasks.

Heolstor wasn't worried about Ceryn in the least, but he kept his hard gaze fixed on Rador, as he began his more clumsy search. Minutes ticked by as Ceryn inched around the room, carefully riffling through documents, and just as carefully putting them back. When he happened to cross in the wake of Rador's haphazard path, he would sort through the mess, automatically shuffling things back into order.

That contrasting cycle of events was enough to keep Heolstor far from bored while he watched. He could have added his own skill to the effort, of course, but in case someone were to enter, he wouldn't want to appear too eager. Besides, Ceryn would do a thorough job, and there wasn't a rush. After all, his proceedings were completely legal and legitimate, ordered by Lord Eothald himself.

"My Lord," Ceryn called out from across the room. "What should we do about the desk? The drawer is locked."

Heolstor moved over to the desk and examined the locked drawer.

"Just break it open," Rador suggested helpfully from behind.

Heolstor straightened. "_No_, Rador, we aren't going to break it open."

"Perhaps I could try and pick the lock?" Ceryn supplied.

Heolstor still shook his head. "Although we have time, I'd rather not waste all of it picking a lock. It's too complicated and well-made to pick in two minutes, or even ten. I don't want to make this any more complicated than it needs to be. Ceryn, continue searching the rest of them. Rador, I want _you_ to go down to the dungeons and get the key from Captain Thorongil." He looked sternly at Rador, as the man began to glow over-zealously. "Get the key, and come back. Immediately."

Rador's enthusiasm dimmed, and he complained, "How do we know he _has _the key?"

"Oh, he has it." Heolstor ran his hand over the polish surface of the dresser. "Whatever's locked up in there must be particularly important to him, and I don't doubt he keeps the key with him."

Enthusiasm crept back into Rador's voice. "But if he doesn't, and won't tell me where it is…"

"If he doesn't, then you will _leave_ and come back to here, and let _me_ decide upon the next step. I've witnessed your enthusiasm in questioning prisoners, and I don't want Thorongil dead yet. Do you hear me, Rador?"

"Yes, my _Lord_."

Rador sulked off down the hall, and quickly descended to the dungeons.

"What do you want down here? Who are you?"

Rador smiled smugly at the frowning guards that blocked his path. "Who I am is none of your concern. All that concerns you, is that I have been sent by Captain Heolstor—who is working under Lord Eothald's direct orders. You will take me to see Captain Thorongil right away."

The guards looked at him suspiciously.

"Would you rather go bother Lord Eothald, and ask him? I've heard he's not in the most forgiving of moods right now."

The guards exchanged unsettled glances. They'd heard of the "madness" that had claimed Eothald, and although neither of them hadn't witnessed it personally yet, they had no desire to.

With a sigh, one of them nodded. "Very well, this way." Reluctantly, he led him to Thorongil's cell. "In there."

"Well, open the door," Rador growled.

"Whatever you have to say to the prisoner, you can say it from out here," the guard replied, his voice steely.

Rador glared. "Like I said, we can always take this up with Lord Eothald. I know who he'll side with."

The guard took a step back, as Rador leaned closer menacingly. "Well… I… If you have permission, then…"

"I do. Now open the door."

**---o—oOo—o---**

At first, Thorongil had found the unremitting darkness and quietness of his cell surprisingly peaceful. Never mind the fact that he was, in fact, a _prisoner_, not a guest. He'd been weary, and as soon as the incessant throbbing of his wounds had dulled somewhat, and he'd accustomed himself to the cold, he'd fallen into a deep sleep. Uncounted hours later, he'd awoken refreshed and ready for action. Only, there was no action for him to take.

Araedhelm's visit had given him renewed cause for hope, as well as for anxiety. If his lieutenant had his way, he might very well be out of prison in a matter of hours—by conventional means, or other. That was what worried him. Despite his admonitions, he didn't get the impression that Araedhelm had heard a word he'd said about waiting for Thengel to return, and put things to rights. As the hours lingered on, he found himself constantly reciting different ways he might drive the point more clearly into his lieutenant's thick head.

After another hour or two, the one-sided internal monologue did begin to lose its appeal. In the end, he decided that if Araedhelm visited him again, he'd say something along the lines of, "Don't even think about trying to break me out of here, you thick-headed idiot." The thought of actually saying that to an enraged Araedhelm nearly make him snicker aloud. He could just _see_ the look on Araedhelm's face. As a guard paced past his cell, however, he quickly worked to stifle his mirth. The guard continued by, holding a torch in one hand. He shot a casual glance into the cells as he passed. A confused and slightly worried look crossed his face, when he saw a smile on prisoner's face. It was almost more than Thorongil could take. Thankfully, the guard hurried by.

He was just settling back, as much as he could in his uncomfortable situation, when he heard the clanking sound that usually announced the approach of guards. Only this time, it sounded like more than one guard. A man, escorted by two guards, stopped in front of his cell, and a noisy argument ensued. Finally, one of the guards pulled his keys out and fitted it into the lock. The door of his cell creaked open.

Frowning, Thorongil hurriedly scrambled to his feet with the help of the wall behind him. He had a visitor, but in the dim torch-light he could see it wasn't Araedhelm. It wasn't anyone he recognized, although from the green cape and uniform he could see that he was a soldier of one of the Eored. That alone was comforting, but he didn't like the dark, perpetually-angry look of the man before him. He forced his cramped legs to hold him tall and steady, while he looked the man straight in the eye.

"I see imprisonment has not taught you any shame, _Captain_," the man said, coolly.

"Ah, but then I have nothing to be ashamed _of_… _soldier_. "

The man obviously resented having been reminded of his lower rank, but he didn't comment on it. "I had heard rumors of your continued stubbornness to admit your guilt, but hardly thought it possible. Against all odds, why do you continue in denial?"

Thorongil gave a snort of derision. "What _odds_? I'm innocent, and no one has any proof otherwise. But who are you, and what do you want from me?" He might be inhibited and powerless, but he wasn't about to act like it. He could, at least, control the conversation in his own cell.

"If you must know, I am Rador, and I was sent here under Lord Eothald's orders." Despite the fact that Thorongil was unarmed and bound, and he himself was fully equipped and in control of the situation, Rador couldn't help but feel the commanding power that emanated from his opponent.

"And have you come to extract a confession for all the crimes I _haven't_ committed, or is Lord Eothald ready for the truth now?" Thorongil asked calmly.

Rador glared at the question, not deigning to answer. "Believe me, I would like nothing better than to prolong our conversation, but I have my orders. You are to give me the key to your desk."

Thorongil's frown deepened. Of all the things he'd expected, of all the questioned he'd been prepared to answer, that had not been one of them.

"What? The great Thorongil, speechless? Don't tell me you lost the key."

Thorongil ignored Rador's taunts. "Why do you want it?"

"Where is it?"

"Why do you want it?" Thorongil repeated.

He was thoroughly bewildered. The key to his _desk_? The only thing that key would unlock was personal information: letters from Elrond, his brothers, Legolas, and Arwen. Meaningless objects in anyone else's hands, but they meant all the world to him. And now this gruff man stood before him demanding he surrender all his most intimate memories to be inspected by who-knew-who. The thought appalled him, although he rigidly forced that fact not to show on his face. Even more than arrest and imprisonment, _this _felt truly humiliating.

"I'm waiting, Captain."

Thorongil clenched his jaw.

"One more sign of defiance, Captain, and I'll have to get permission to use more forceful measures. That would take up so much of both our time. Just give me the key, for your own good."

Thorongil gave a bitter laugh, but he had to admit defeat. He had to pick his battles, and this was one he could afford to lose, however emotionally painful it might be. "On a chain around my neck," he said, tersely. As if the sting of submission didn't hurt enough, he couldn't even retrieve the key for himself with his arms pinioned as they were behind his back.

Rador smiled. Feeding off his humiliation was a pleasure. Stepping forward, he reached into Thorongil's tunic, grabbed the key, and jerked hard. Thorongil flinched as the chain snapped against the back of his neck.

"Good, Captain. You do learn. Soon, you'll be confessing all, and begging for your life. But I do hope to see you before that. I hope to see you get what you deserve. There will be no mercy for _traitors _in Rohan," Rador sneered, turning on his heel and moving out of the cell without sparing the guards more than a look.

The cell door was slammed shut behind him, and he was left alone once again. Wishing he could rub his neck, he sank gingerly back to the ground with a sigh.

**---o—oOo—o---**

"Leave, both of you. And close that door behind you." Heolstor commanded, sitting down at the desk. "I'll handle this part on my own."

Ceryn followed the direction dutifully, Rador exiting soon after, even while shooting Heolstor a dark look. He hadn't exactly expected a thank-you from his demanding leader, but he had been looking forward to seeing the contents of the drawer.

As soon as the door was firmly shut, Heolstor inserted the key into the lock and turned it. Sliding the drawer open, he placed the key aside. The drawer's contents mostly consisted of papers. He began to sort them systematically, scanning each one briefly, before setting them aside. After he'd gone over them all once, he repeated the procedure, this time taking more care to pay attention to specifics.

To his surprise, and pleasure, he found many of the messages to be written in some form of elvish script. Although it irritated him to be unable to read them, he instantly realized their endless potential. Thorongil, exchanging letters with elves… Suspicious to say the least. Many Rohirrim still clung to their age-old superstitions regarding the fair race, though he himself had risen above such ignorant fears. He stacked those papers to the side.

Another letter, this time written in Common, caught his attention next.

_My Dearest,_

Heolstor raised an eyebrow. These were personal correspondences, indeed. He read on. The letter was short, but what _was _there was invaluable. It wasn't anything too extraordinary, just a love letter—albeit a well-written, and obviously heart-felt one. However, Heolstor wasn't dwelling on the emotion of the letter. He looked at the signature, only to find it signed enigmatically:

_Your future queen_

Heolstor stared at the signature for some time. Confusion was not an emotion he relished, but he was feeling it now. On top of that, he was feeling curious as well. He hated it, feeling as if he were missing out on something. No, it was worse than that, he _knew_ he was missing out on _something_. Who was this woman, who addressed Captain Thorongil as "Dearest", and signed her letter "Your future queen"? He already knew how he was going to use the letter, but he was beginning to crave a trueexplanation, not his own fabrications.

Knowing he couldn't seek out answers yet only improved his sour mood, and he decided to move on, adding the love letter to the stack of evidence. He soon found two articles that would definitely enhance his claims regarding the love letter: a lock of black hair, and a single, dried rose.

Although he knew he should be rejoicing at the new "proof", instead he only felt more frustrated. A lock of black hair—like Morwen's—a rose—like one of the many the Queen had in her garden—and an perfectly incriminating letter to tie all three together beautifully. This was exactly the kind of coincidence he'd hoped to find, and play upon to Thorongil's guilt. But _this_… This seemed too perfect.

He pushed the thought aside, and doggedly continued on. His search further revealed a letter signed by a "Halbarad". Most of it made no sense whatever to him, but one line caught his eye.

…_and I suppose you have all of Rohan eating out of your hand by now, though how you do it, I'll never understand, my friend. Your brothers tell me you're already a captain…_

Decisively, he added that letter to the growing pile. At last, he reached the bottom of the drawer—but then a sparkle caught his eye. He reached to the back, and drew out one last object. And what an object it was. It appeared to be some sort of chain of office, composed of large, green gems and gold. With closer inspection, he recognized the royal seal of Rohan as the center piece: a white stallion, leaping against a black backdrop, with a blazing sun in the top right corner.

For a while, he was helpless to do anything but turn the finely-crafted piece of jewelry over and over again, staring at it. This was not simply some beautiful trinket, it was royal. Literally. It had been a long time since Thengel had worn it, but he had in his younger days, as prince of Rohan. Théoden was too young, but when he came of age, he would wear it too. Or he might, if he were in possession of it, as he was obviously not. How Thorongil had come to have it was baffling.

Heolstor was beyond curious now, and twice as irritated as before. As pleased as he was to have so much ready evidence, this last part seemed to good to be accidental. Ironically, it appeared his "lies" might be, in fact, the truth. The love letter and supporting articles, that all too eagerly pointed to a romance with Morwen; mysterious correspondences with elves; a letter suggesting he might have set to win his influential position from the beginning with ulterior motives in mind; and now this royal chain of office. Wasit all coincidence, or had a he fortuitously stumbled upon a hitherto unknown rival for the throne?

This "Captain Thorongil", if that was even his real name, was becoming more interesting by the hour.

In any case, he was going to have to have another talk with LordEothald. Unfortunately, it seemed Thorongil was more dangerous than anyone suspected. More cautious measures would have to be employed to keep the prisoner securely in his cell.

**---o—oOo—o---**

Thorongil eyed the bread on the ground in front of him, wondering if it was edible or not. From the way it had bounced when the guard tossed it, he had his doubts. It didn't help that he couldn't clearly see its color in the indistinct light. The thought of sinking his teeth into anything of indistinguishable color that _bounced _wasn't appealing.

The guard, who'd just thrown in the "bread", reached a wooden mug full of liquid in through the bars, setting it down on the ground before hastily snatching his hand back. Thorongil halted his eminent departure with his voice.

"Can you tell me what day this is? How long have I been kept here?"

The guard swallowed, ignoring the question. "I'm not supposed to talk to you."

Thorongil tried again, desperate for information. "Can you at least tell me the time of day? Is this my breakfast, or lunch—or dinner?"

The man still sounded wary, but he said hastily, "It is nearly evening, if you must know."

After the guard had left, Thorongil fell to contemplating the bread again. He took a tentative sip of the water, and then and even more timid bit of the bread. It was dry, and would have been better _had_ it been tasteless. However, it was food, and he was starving. With the help of the rest of the water, he managed to wash it down, though the brackish liquid left an aftertaste of its own .

If he could find nothing else in his dismal situation to be cheerful about, he could at least be grateful for the small favor they'd done him in finally allowing his hands to be released. He rubbed his still-sore wrists, feeling the indentations the manacles had left on his skin. Apart from being imprisoned, generally shunned in every social way, and accused of crimes he'd never committed, he was actually being treated fairly decently. _And _this _is the point at which Legolas would once again claim you to be a hopeless and incorrigible optimist, _he thought, with a smile. _Ah, mellon-nín, if you could only see me now. _

Footsteps interrupted his thoughts.

Although he didn't much enjoy the prolonged hours of solitude, the visits he'd been receiving weren't easy to deal with either. From the quick pace of the footsteps, it might simply be a guard hurrying past, or it might be an agitated Araedhelm, or it might be…

"Captain, we meet again."

He cringed. Or, it might be Rador, the charming soldier who'd visited him before.

"Didn't they tell you, visitors aren't admitted after noon?" he blurted out, than realized with a twinge of alarm that he'd spoken without thinking. However bored he was, Rador didn't look like the kind of man who took kindly to being insulted or taken lightly. He was right.

"Careful, Thorongil, remember what we talked about last time? I respect those who have the right to be respected. Traitors, however, shouldn't be lax in their respect to anyone."

Deciding his last comment had been stupid enough to last him several remarks, Thorongil remained silent.

"Guards!" Rador called down the hall, before turning back to him. With a smile, he pulled a ring of keys out of his tunic. "I must admit, you were much more cooperative last time than I had expected you to be." Two guards appeared behind him, and he inserted one of the keys into the lock. "I do hope you will take the easy choice once again." The guards followed him into the cell, closing the door behind them.

Thorongil rose to face him, his silver eyes hard. "What do you want?"

"A simple confession, Captain."

* * *

**To be continue…**

**I suppose this is where I make the obligatory apologies for ending the chapter in a cliffie. Nah. I'll just do it without apology this time. -smiles pleasantly at glowering readers- On the other hand… You know, I'm really, really sorry about this. Hey, at least we're getting the angst, right? And I'm not leaving on vacation or anything, so all's good—right?**

**A huge thanks to everyone who reviewed. :)**


	14. Choices

**_See first chapter for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes. _**

**A/N: -basks in wonderfulness of reviews- Thanks for keeping me inspired. ;) Here's (some of) the angst, as promised, and yet more angry Araedhelm (the poor guy's going to spontaniously combust if he doesn't cool down). Hope you all enjoy!**

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**Chapter 14: Choices**

Thorongil waited until the last sounds of Rador and his men had died away, before groaning. Loudly.

The beating really hadn't been all that bad. Although the blows had been fast, unrelenting, and hard, he'd endured worse before. Rador had repeated his question with nearly every blow and kick, and now it seemed to reverberate in his brain with every pulse of his obviously concussed head.

He closed his eyes, trying to calm his thoughts, and lessen the incessant throbbing between his temples. He had had much worse beatings, yes, but it must have been some time ago, because he couldn't remember feeling so utterly pulverized and worked-over in a long time. Eru, and here he'd been feeling sorry for himself _before_, simply for having been falsely accused and imprisoned. Now it was time for some serious self-pity.

Groaning more softly, he tried to ease the weight off his arms by straightening a little further. After he'd finished shoving him around, Rador's more ingenious cruelty had shown even more clearly just before parting, when he'd decided he needed to be bound once again. Merely restraining his hands in front of him—or behind him—would be far too comfortable, not to mention too simple and redundant. How a mind like Rador's worked was beyond him, but the results were painful.

After his hands had been tied in front of him, a wooden pole had been stuck between his back and his arms, pulling them back into a position that, while it was mostly only uncomfortable at the moment, he suspected would soon cause him more than a little discomfort. To make matters worse, a short length of chain, which was connected to the middle of the pole, had been attached to a metal ring, located about halfway up the wall of his cell. This chain was short enough that he couldn't stand fully upright, which was perfectly alright at the moment, as far as he was concerned, as he felt too sore to consider standing any time soon. Unfortunately, it was also too short to allow him to sit down—much less _lie_ down, as he truly wished to do—unless he was willing to allow his entire weight to fall on his painfully-stretched arms.

So, that left him only the option of kneeling on the hard, stone floor, as he wondered how long they intended to keep him this way, and how long he could remain in this position before he grew too tired to kneel.

With supreme effort, he forced his thoughts away from his miserable condition, clinging to any and all pleasanter subjects. Over a couple of indeterminable hours, the ache in his head began to ebb slowly away. As his eyelids began to droop, his last conscious thought for the night flew back to his lieutenant.

_Elbereth, please don't let him come up with some hare-brained scheme…_

**---o—oOo—o---**

"So, is our course of action decided upon?"

Araedhelm's tone was intense and impatient, and Anborn might have lost his temper. He _might_ have, had it not been for his intrinsic and nearly unbounded patience. After all, he did have experience with exasperating men. His mettle had been tested against some incredibly difficult people, and Araedhelm wasn't nearly annoying enough to wear him down so quickly. But just because he hadn't lost his temper yet, didn't mean Araedhelm might not lose his.

Anborn gave Morwen a wry look, before stating coolly, "Lieutenant, we have gathered _here_ for that express purpose."

Araedhelm shifted from foot to foot. "Yes, well I've been ready for the last half-hour. More than ready. I thought you two might have come up with an idea or two while you were sitting around."

"Lieutenant, we arrived at the agreed-upon time. That you were ready a half-hour early is your problem." Anborn never bothered mincing words, especially not with hot-headed soldiers. Especially not with Araedhelm. In his opinion, Thorongil was far too lenient with his second-in-command. Friend or no, what Araedhelm often needed most was some strict order and discipline. Like now. Araedhelm paced from one end of the room to the other, like a caged warg, ready to spring. "That you choose to waste your time and energy walking and re-walking the length of this room is _also_ your problem." He completely ignored the resentful look Araedhelm shot him. "However, in doing so you are doing Captain Thorongil absolutely no good, and you're making me dizzy, besides."

Morwen decided to step in before the conversation could escalate. She propped herself up slightly on her elbows, leaning against the heap of pillows Feorh had insisted upon piling the couch with. "Araedhelm, will you please take a seat?" she appealed gently. Anborn was hardly lacking in good qualities, but gauging and respecting Araedhelm's occasionally explosive personality wasn't among his many talents.

Deferring to his queen, Araedhelm slipped sullenly into a chair, still surreptitiously treating Anborn to a full dose of his wrathful gaze.

"To answer your question, Araedhelm," Morwen continued. "Yes, I have been thinking while I've been sitting—or rather lying—here."

"My Lady, I didn't mean to imply that you weren't or that—"

Morwen hushed Araedhelm's embarrassed apology. "It is well, Araedhelm, I know you are only concerned for Thorongil. I am, as well. Eothald's madness seems to have infected half of Meduseld, and I hardly know what to do about it. I had hoped to have Captain Thorongil here for counsel and aid, as Thengel planned, should anything go amiss. As it is…he is now our main concern."

"Yes," Anborn agreed. "And as much as it grieves me to say it, I don't think there is anything we can do about his predicament until the King returns."

Only the sincere regret that tainted Anborn's voice kept Araedhelm from jumping back up from his seat. In respect for Morwen, he tried to keep his voice from rising. "There is plenty we can do. Certainly more useful things than sitting here talking in circles over matters that have already been discussed and thought over hundreds of times."

"And what would you be suggesting we do, Lieutenant, lead a raid on the dungeons and spring Captain Thorongil from his cell by force?" That Araedhelm did not openly deny the plan was enough to confirm Anborn's greatest fears, and he buried his head in his hands with a groan of disbelief. "As the Queen has said, it seems half of Meduseld has been infected by this madness." He frowned and perplexity, and shook his head slowly a couple of times. "Eothald even seems to have some kind of…following among the soldiers."

"Following?" Morwen repeated, matching his frown. "Eothald never struck me as the kind of man to inspire devotion. I didn't realize he had a 'following'."

"Neither did I. Apparently, though, he has inspired some kind of loyalty, even from some of the guards. I can't exactly order them to stop, either. Eothald is lawfully in charge at the moment, after all."

"It's just wrong," Araedhelm grumbled. "Eothald's never had any admirers. Why now? He's a follower himself, not a leader. These men who are so adherent to his commands… They have to be up to something. They can't actually believe the kind of things Eothald is saying."

"There's nothing we can do about that," Anborn responded, calmly, but not happily. Not that the fact that he wasn't happy made any difference about the way such a cool brush-off sounded to Araedhelm.

"Well suggesting we do _nothing_ isn't exactly _helpful_," Araedhelm defended.

"_Gentlemen_." Morwen sat upright, gingerly lowering her injured leg off the couch she'd been reclining on. "Captain—Lieutenant—both of you stop it." She called their attention back to her. "Neither of you are being constructive. We cannot just do nothing, but neither can we use force. We must choose a middle ground."

Never having lost his composure in the first place, Anborn responded more quickly than Araedhelm. "You have a plan, my Lady?"

"A vague one…of sorts," Morwen said, biting her lip. "Not so much of a plan, as an idea. Tactics, if you will."

"Yes?" Araedhelm added his encouragement. After all, "tactics" had a promising ring to it.

"We neither attack, nor remain silent. Lawfully, Eothald does command the situation. That alone would be enough to stay our hand in many ways, but, as you pointed out, Anborn, he also has the personal support of a number of guards. Though, Eru knows how… However, with both these problems barring our way, we are severely limited. But we can help Thorongil by using everything at _our _command."

"And what is at our command?" Araedhelm asked warily.

"For one thing, we can hurry Thengel's return," Morwen replied.

Araedhelm sat up hopefully at the suggestion. Strangling Eothald would have been his first choice, but he'd come to terms with the fact that he was going to have to be patient. The inactivity, however, fell nothing short of torture. "I will go as a messenger, to Thengel-King," he offered eagerly. "He is probably already on his way back by now, and if I meet him part-way I could alert him to the need for haste."

Morwen smiled sympathetically at his fervor. "Thank you, Araedhelm, but that won't be necessary. I took the matter into my own hands and sent a messenger out early this morning."

Araedhelm nodded in acceptance, disappointed to have lost the opportunity to do something, but compensated to know that they were one step closer to getting Thorongil out of prison that much sooner. "What else can we do?"

"Very little." Morwen sighed. "Worry kept me up most of last night, and for all my hours of thinking I could only think of one other thing for us to do. We must warn Thorongil."

Araedhelm's brow fell into a troubled frown. "Warn him of…what?"

"We must inform him of his position legally, and caution him about what he says to Eothald. Eothald knows the laws and customs of Rohan much better than Thorongil, and if I judge him correctly, I think I know what he will do next." Morwen nodded towards Anborn. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Captain, but it seems to me that the next obvious step for Eothald to take—should he wish to rid himself of Thorongil—is to banish him."

At Araedhelm's indignant exclamation, Anborn interposed. "Listen, Lieutenant, before you say anything rash. I think the Queen is on the right track. For some reason, unapparent to the rest of us, Eothald is eager to get rid of Thorongil. Legally, he cannot execute him while the King is absent. That is one reason I've been confused by all these idiotic accusations. Eothald knows he doesn't have the authority to kill Thorongil. He has full control in every way _except _that. He can keep Thorongil imprisoned, or mete out some kind of lighter punishment, but he cannot deal out the death-penalty. Even if he would dare overrule this law, obscure as it is, he would only have a trial based on _very_ obscure reasons. I don't think he would dare risk it on someone of Thorongil's position."

"I don't see what this has to do with warning him," Araedhelm complained. "So far, all you've said is that Eothald _can't_ do anything but continue to keep him locked up." He clenched his jaw several times, the veins on the side of his face twitching. "Though why keeping him in prison would do Lord Eothald any good is beyond me."

"It's beyond any of us _why_ Lord Eothald is doing this. But he is. And, if getting Thorongil out of the way is his goal, than he will need to do something before Thengel returns." Anborn met Morwen's gaze solemnly. "Like banish him."

Araedhelm threw his hands up in frustration. "But how? You just said he cannot execute him."

"But he can punish him, if the punishment falls short of execution," Anborn restated. "Banishment is severe, but with sufficient proof, if the accused has been judged and found guilty, or admits to the guilt himself, Eothald can choose banishment as the punishment for a crime as serious as treason."

"Well then, I don't see any need for us to worry. Captain Thorongil would never admit to a crime he didn't commit," Araedhelm avowed confidently.

Morwen and Anborn exchanged glances, neither of them daring to clearly state the worry that had entered both their minds. Araedhelm was either being extremely naive, or blocking the unpleasant possibly from his mind. They could guess which.

"No, I cannot see him doing it either…" Morwen ventured quietly. "But Eothald seems oddly determined. I've never seen him so set on anything before, and I don't think he'll stop easily now that he's begun. Thorongil may be forced to choose between banishment and…" She stopped, biting her lip agitatedly.

"And another kind of punishment," Anborn finished for her. "Think about it, Araedhelm. A determined man, in a powerful position, with men who will obey him, gets what he wants."

Araedhelm didn't explode as they might have expected, but he set his jaw even more tightly and spoke between clenched teeth. "You mean they might torture a 'confession' out of him."

"Precisely."

Morwen tried to soften Anborn's blunt assessment. "They may not get the chance, Araedhelm. I ordered the messenger to hurry, and if all goes well he should reach Thengel soon. All you can do until he returns is visit Thorongil and tell him. If he can hold out for a couple of days, Thengel will be back."

"And what if they have already…talked to him?" Araedhelm asked cynically, not expecting an answer.

"Araedhelm, even if he must choose banishment, Thengel will revoke the judgment. He won't be banished forever." Morwen reassured.

"Aye, but something tells me that if he leaves now we may never see him again." Araedhelm smiled a soft, wistful smile. "Even in a week's time he may have vanished into the Wilds, and disappear without at trace, leaving Rohan as suddenly as he came."

Morwen returned his wistfulness half-hearted smile. "I fear you may be right on that count. But, in truth, I am doubtful whether he'd choose banishment in the first place. He isn't the kind of man to run from problems, even if they aren't his own."

"No, he's not that kind of man," Araedhelm agreed grimly. "And he's about as stubborn as they come."

"In any case, you must talk to him as soon as possible, Araedhelm. It may do no good, but you must give him all the information he needs to make the decisions he'll almost certainly be faced with. I wish I could go myself. I would like to see with my own two eyes that he is well…" With irritation, Morwen looked at her leg, propped up on a pillow in front of her. "But even if it weren't for _this_, I don't think I'd make it past the door." To the dark looks that crossed both men's faces, she added quickly, "Yes, Eothald is keeping me here under guard—but don't bother about me. The extent of my discomfort is helplessness and boredom, but at least I am allowed company."

"He is really _forcing_ you to stay here?" Araedhelm asked, voice dangerously low.

Morwen pressed her lips together in a thin line, and replied sardonically, "Oh no, of course not. Even Eothald wouldn't go so far as that. He is, however, most concerned for my safety and health, and has assigned two soldiers to 'guard' me at all times. After all, no one knows how many allies this _dangerous _traitor might have had."

Anborn's frown deepened even further than before. "The King will be less than pleased when he returns and finds Meduseld like this. Eothald will live to regret this madness of his." Somehow, the quiet way the Captain understated his words had the ability to make them sound even more angry and threatening than if he'd shouted them.

Araedhelm's fierce expression spoke for him.

"Go now," Morwen urged. "See to your Captain."

**---o—oOo—o---**

Head held high, almost haughtily, Araedhelm came to a brief halt in front of the two guards blocking the passage.

"Sir."

The guards swiftly rose to attention. Araedhelm gave them a clipped nod, and then continued past them.

"Sir!"

One of the guards rushed after him, trying to keep pace with his long strides.

"No need to escort me, soldier. I know where Captain Thorongil's cell is."

"But, Sir, we were told that no one was to visit him or—"

Araedhelm smiled condescendingly. "Ah, but such orders wouldn't apply to me. You may go back to your post. Oh—" He took the lit torch from the hand of the guard, who released it somewhat dazedly. "—thank you."

The young guard quit his futile chase, watching Araedhelm with trepidation as he continued down the passage at an unhurried gait. Finally, with a shrug, he went back to his comrade. The only way for the prisoner to leave the dungeons, should he by some miracle escape, would be to come this way, since the other way only led to a dead end. What harm could letting in a visitor do? Certainly nothing worth crossing a superior officer over.

Araedhelm could have laughed. He almost hadn't expected his ruse to work. He was certainly relieved it had worked, however, since he hadn't a clue what he would have done had they continued to refuse him. There wasn't a whole lot of skill involved in _acting _authoritative, but it had gotten him what he wanted far more quickly than he could have dared hope.

He might have asked Eothald for permission, of course, but something inside him burned at the thought of asking him for anything. Besides, there was no guarantee Eothald would give him permission a second time, and he'd prefer not to have a direct order not to visit Thorongil. This way, he was only repeating a previously freely-given privilege.

As soon as he was out of sight, his unhurried steps quickened in his anticipation to see his captain. His mind whirred back and forth between morose thoughts, and then hopeful ones. Finally, he reached his destination.

He peered into the cell anxiously. "Captain?" A slight groan was all the response he received, and held the torch aloft to better eliminate the dark cell. Thorongil hardly seemed to have moved. For a second, he almost allowed himself the luxury of relief, but then his captain shifted, slowly lifting his head from where it had been lolled against his chest, and he was instantly tense again.

Thorongil gazed blearily into the bright light, looking woeful indeed with one eye swollen mostly shut, and a myriad of bruises, new and old, decorating all visible skin. The call of his lieutenant had finally broken through his stupor, and his immediate reaction was to attempt to rise. Predictably, that idea, bound as he was, turned out to be a bad one. Before he'd even got his legs fully under him, his arms protested just in time to save themselves from being pulled out of their sockets. The pain was enough to bring him back to the present, and remind him that standing was out of the question. He sank back to his knees. "Eru…" he tried to sound amused, for Araedhelm's sake. "I keep forgetting about that."

Araedhelm wasn't so easily side-tracked. "Sweet Béma…what have they done to you?"

Thorongil would have shrugged light-heartedly, but his arms were stretched to the limit, and using his shoulders for any gesture wasn't terribly tempting. "Nothing a week of sleep wouldn't cure." Mentally, he added, a good solid _month_ of sleep on a _bed_ with plenty of _fresh_ water and _food_.

Araedhelm seemed to be much preoccupied with clenching and unclenching his fists, but he channeled his attention long enough to ask darkly, "Who?"

"It's dark down here, Araedhelm, and at the time I was rather distracted…" Thorongil carefully evaded answering the question directly.

"The guards all carry torches whenever they come this far back. Who did this to you?"

"If I tell you, you'll have to promise me not to kill him, or go and do anything you'll regret."

Araedhelm's eyes flashed stubbornly, though his anger was not directed at his captain. "I can't promise anything."

"Well, then, _I _can't tell you."

"Captain—"

"No, Lieutenant."

Thorongil could hardly gather enough energy to speak the command with his usual force, but his obvious weariness was even more effective in quieting Araedhelm's protests.

"I just feel so…helpless, not being able to do anything…" Araedhelm said, remorsefully.

"No more so than I."

If possible, Araedhelm's voice became even more regretful. "I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner, Captain."

"What good could you have done had you been here?" Thorongil didn't speak harshly, although the strain of combined physical pain and mental tension made him speak more sharply than was his habit. In addition, while he would never say so, inwardly he was beginning to wonder where his lieutenant's brain had gone to. Since he had been imprisoned, all common sense seemed to have left Araedhelm.

Araedhelm looked away, belatedly realizing how rash he must be sounding and, for that matter, acting. In all honesty, though, he didn't feel repentant yet. But the last thing he wanted to do was to worry Thorongil, or exhaust him with pointless arguments. "I came here directly from talking to Captain Anborn and Lady Morwen. We've discussed every possible strategy we can think of to get you out of here sooner rather than later."

Just hearing Morwen and Anborn's names spoken ignited confidence in Thorongil, and filled him with relief, for he trusted both their realism and resourcefulness. Morwen would think from every possible angle, and come up with any number of ideas, and Anborn would make certain they didn't break any laws or necks—theirs or someone else's—in the process. He asked with interest, "Oh, and what plots have the three of you hatched together?"

"Nothing too drastic, I assure you," Araedhelm responded unhappily. "Even with all three of us doing our utmost, we could only think of two things to do. Early this morning, the Queen implemented the first, sending a messenger on to inform the King, and hasten his return."

Thorongil nodded, satisfied in even so small a course of action. "And the other plan?"

"Aye, as for that…" Araedhelm couldn't help but feel more angry every time he looked at Thorongil, bound in such a painful position. He swallowed his feelings as best as he could. "I was going to warn you, but the monster who did this to you got here before me."

"How did you know I was going to need warning?"

"It was Anborn. He said that if Eothald was still intent on getting rid of you, he'd have to look for another way besides killing you, since the law forbids him to execute you. He said the only other option would be to banish you—if you were to confess to treason. Obviously, he's already trying."

"Yes, he's tried, but it'll take a lot more than _this _to get a false confession out of me."

Rather than being reassured by his determination, Araedhelm felt dread. "Captain, it wouldn't damage your name or your honor. The King will know the truth when he hears of the matter. Even if you did confess, and left Rohan for now, just until all this has blown over, and the King could clear the charges…"

"I won't leave Araedhelm. Not under these circumstances. Perhaps confessing and fleeing would be the wise and sensible thing to do, but…" Thorongil searched for the right words, but they still came out awkwardly. "…somehow, something inside of me won't let me do that. I can't just flee when danger is threatening. I swore to serve Thengel-King, and I can't very well do that if I'm banished. I know most wouldn't judge me worse for having taken the part of a coward, but I would think less of myself for having done so. Besides, I promised the King I would watch over Morwen. Granted, I'm not doing a terribly good job of it so far, but I'd do even worse from the borders of Rohan."

Araedhelm sighed deeply. So it was settled then. Thorongil would never do less than the honorable thing, even if it cost him his life.

"Don't look so dismal. If what you say is true, then the messenger that Lady Morwen sent should have reached Thengel by now. Help may not be far off."

"Or it might be."

"Try to keep a positive outlook, Lieutenant."

Despite himself, Araedhelm couldn't keep from cracking a grin. "I should be the one encouraging you, Captain, not the other way around. How you can keep so optimistic about this mess…"

Thorongil smiled enigmatically. "Mess? What mess? Don't tell me you don't think I actually intended for everything to work out this way. So little faith in your captain."

Araedhelm's mirth had already dwindled, and he didn't offer a joke in return. "We'll keep working, Captain. One of use will think of something."

Thorongil raised an eyebrow. "Or you'll take an Eored and storm the dungeons? That is still the plan you intend to fall back on, should all else fail, isn't it?"

"Oh yes, if we can't think of anything else, there is always _that_."

* * *

**To be continued...**

**Thanks again for the reviews! They really keep me going like you wouldn't believe. :)**

**(And, just in case anyone's hoping: no, I'm not done with poor Thorongil yet. Not by a long-shot. Sorry. -bg-)**


	15. The Wrong Answer

**A/N: Let the angst begin in earnest… **

* * *

**Chapter 15: The Wrong Answer**

Heolstor studied the chessboard, staring at it as if it were the enemy itself. Seeing the fruits of your labors was, of course, the best part of planning. But when everything was running smoothly, even the preparation could be pleasurable.

He wasn't prone to give himself premature self-congratulations, but he was feeling pleased with himself tonight. Pleased, and abnormally eager to see the next stage of his plan unfold. He'd planned carefully, and although a _certain _captain might cause him difficulty, he felt confident in the evidence he had gathered, which even now lay safely locked away. How could anyone in his right mind refute such incriminating evidence? Even Thengel couldn't possibly brush it off as nothing, simply on the basis of his friendship with Thorongil.

But he didn't even have to think of that yet. If he could…persuade Captain Thorongil to go away quietly now, there would be no need to ever force the King to such a decision. If Thorongil would submit, and be banished, he would be gratified on many accounts. He didn't really want to kill him, after all. Such a formidable mind to simply kill... Even as he hoped for such a thing, at the same time he waved it off. "Submit" and "Thorongil" in the same sentence sounded ludicrous, if it wasn't an outright oxymoron. No, if he judged his fellow captain aright—which he was sure he did—then there would be no backing off for him. He would probably think leaving under pressure the act of a coward, and the captain's quaint code of honor would never allow that. Ah well, that was where the evidence would come in. He almost believed _that_ himself…

His eyes were still glued upon the chessboard, spread out on the low table before him. Heolstor sat forward in his chair, stretching out his hand and letting it hover over the various pieces for a couple of seconds. Then he snatched up a pawn, eyed it with disdain, and set it down on the table.

"Well, my Lady, you were most ingenious," he spoke quietly to himself, as if Morwen were present. "I must admit, I didn't see it coming until it was nearly too late. I'll have to keep a closer eye on you from now on." He looked back at the pawn. He'd taken Morwen into account, but he was irritated to realize he'd primarily been considering the actions of a certain hot-headed lieutenant. A messenger from the queen, to hasten Thengel's return—he should have seen that one coming from the very start. Thanks to one of his many sources, he'd been notified of the situation, and the problem was now averted. He would indeed have to keep a closer eye on Morwen. "However, it's too late for any more of your subtle plans to help the dear captain, now, my Lady."

Amusement colored his former disdain, as his hand dove again, this time ensnaring a knight with his fingers. He wasn't so hasty to set it on the side-lines, instead turning it continuously between thumb and forefinger.

"And you, Captain. What are your thoughts right now, I wonder?" he muttered, softly. "Will you play my game, and give in easily, or will you fight it out and seal your own death? You certainly have an overabundance of loyal friends. Who'll come to your rescue next—perhaps a contingent of elves?" Considering the letters scrawled in elven script that he'd discovered in Thorongil's desk, that statement lost most of its humor. Even if he couldn't understand the words they contained, their significance was not lost on him. It appeared Thorongil did have friends, even among the elves. His eyes narrowed, as he continued to turn the chess-piece between his fingers. "I really do admire you, but I admire you too much to leave you as a threat to _me_."

The knock at the door forced him to set the knight aside. He rose, unlocked the door, and ushered Rador into the room with a curt gesture of his hand. He didn't offer him a seat.

"Stand right where you are, don't even think about touching anything, and don't say a word. I don't relish the risk of having you here in the first place, so listen carefully and do _not_ make me repeat myself. I want you out of here before five minutes are up."

Rador nodded stiffly, and did as commanded, staying where he stood, hands clasped behind his back. His black eyes followed Heolstor, as he unlocked and opened one of the cabinets that lined the wall. He withdrew two vials and set them down on a table nearby to relock the cabinet, before picking them back up and walking back to him.

"Take these." Heolstor held the vials up for him to take, only to pull back slightly when he reached for them. He looked warningly at him. "Be careful with them. Poisons such as these aren't made overnight." He held the vials to the light, their liquid contents sparkling in the firelight.

Rador couldn't quite fathom the almost fond manner in which Heolstor handled the two vials. However, confusion was almost a perpetual state of being when he was around Heolstor. Especially when he was in one of these brusque moods, which he'd come to recognize as Heolstor's version of cheerfulness—he took his happiness out on his underlings. He'd given up trying to understand some of his quirks. He didn't really _want_ to know, anyways. Heolstor thought he was repulsive, and the feeling was mutual. They were both in this for their own gain. Unfortunately, _he_ was the underdog, and had to act it. Instead of rolling his eyes, therefore, he merely gave a tolerably civil nod of understanding, and a quick, "I will be careful with them, my Lord."

Heolstor, who knew perfectly well that he was the superior of the situation, was not so restrained as to keep himself from rolling his eyes. "Oh, yes, I know just how careful you can be. I've seen nothing but an overabundance of gentleness, caution, and general reserve from you ever since I enlisted you."

Rador kept his face blank, not looking Heolstor in the eye lest he betray his insubordinate thoughts.

Heolstor knew all the same. He knew Rador was nothing less than a volcano ready to burst. All the same, he _would_ instill some fear in him, at least. "Don't think I can't feel your anger. But I warn you, Rador, if you ruin my plans and you will regret it." He left it at that, turning back to the subject of the vials, as if Rador was nothing but a respectful, cringing serf. He held the vials forward again, this time allowing Rador to actually take them.

Heolstor's words had done anything but reduce Rador to a cringing coward, but he took the vials with another deferential nod. "If I may ask, my Lord, what are they _for_?"

"They are to help you with the prisoner. I do not suppose he's been forthcoming?"

"No, my Lord. Anything but forthcoming. He's being very stubborn."

"I could have told you that. I expected you might need a little…help. These may convince even the great Captain Thorongil to abandon Rohan."

Rador looked dubiously at the vials. "These? What's in them?"

"Poison, in that one." Heolstor indicated one with his finger.

"But you said we couldn't afford to actually _kill_ him…"

"_Diluted _poison, you fool," Heolstor said sharply. "Diluted, non-lethal, and specially created by me. It won't kill him, but it will have interesting…side-effects."

Rador was looking more interested, although he still eyed the vial somewhat suspiciously. He preferred more conventional means of persuading prisoners. "What kind of 'side-effects'?"

"I'll let you find that out for yourself. But I would advise you to administer it before you turn to your own methods. I think you will find its side-effects most complimentary."

Carefully, Rador stowed the poison in one of the inner-pockets of his overcoat. "I will do as you say, my Lord. But what about the other one?"

"That would be another special concoction of my own. It an acidic compound." When Rador's face didn't dawn with understanding, he continued patiently, "I would recommend that you _do not_ let it touch your own skin—or you'll be figuring out its properties first-hand."

Rador eyed the vial now with more respect, and curiosity. "I see."

Heolstor's hand rested on the door handle, but before he opened it he added, "Start early tomorrow morning. I don't know how much time we have left. Push him hard, but don't do anything permanent yet. The poisons will do much of the encouragement for you, so don't work him over too hard until you see their effects."

"Yes, my Lord. First thing tomorrow morning."

Rador strode out into the gloomy hall grinning. Who said business and pleasure couldn't be the same thing?

**---o—oOo—o---**

"Good morning, Captain. Did you sleep well?"

Thorongil didn't reply. For one thing, he was just waking up, and feeling horrible. For another, he'd long ago learned that responding to taunts from men who hated you was not necessary. Such men usually continued to talk whether you answered them or not. Besides, they didn't usually _want_ an answer, much preferring the sound of their own voice.

"No? I suppose stress does get to all of us, and besides, that position really doesn't look too comfortable."

"How observant of you." Thorongil's retort turned into something more resembling a croak. They hadn't brought him water for hours, and he could feel dehydration setting in. And he was incredibly sore. Actually, sore didn't even begin to describe the feeling that seemed to generally envelop every last muscle in his body.

He hadn't yet worked up the energy required to lift his head, and thus lost the gesture Rador must have given the guards, but he soon felt rough hands seizing his arms. He bit his lip in pain, as the hands lifted him. Chains rattled, and then he felt the coolness of the pole being slid out from between his back and arms. The pain that followed was every bit as excruciating as having bonds cut after a long time of being bound.

Over the hours, he'd had to slump against the pole for support. As much pain as it caused him, he couldn't kneel forever, and as he dozed on and off, he'd awoken a number of times to find his hands and arms numb from lack of circulation. Of course, as soon as he pulled himself upright he would regain some circulation. Now, however, the sudden onslaught of blood rushing back into his abused limbs was overwhelming, as was the wealth of complete feeling.

Biting his lip even harder, he tried to pull his uncooperative feet out from under him so he could stand, as the guards began to drag him forward. Just when he thought he might be able to stand upright, they pushed him forward, and his legs crumpled from under him once again. It was probably just as well, since he doubted they would have let him stay standing for long.

When Rador's shadow fell over him, his automatic response was to push himself up to his knees. To his chagrin, he found his knees sore and unwilling to bear his weight, and ended up only half upright. His hands were still bound in front of him, and the cord bit so deeply into his skin he found he could scarcely feel his fingers, as he struggled to support himself with irritatingly shaky arms. Slowly, he lifted his head.

As if he'd been waiting for such a response, Rador instantly lashed out, catching him straight in the jaw with his booted foot. Thorongil's head snapped backwards, and his arms collapsed, sending him unceremoniously sprawling forward.

"Really, Captain, I had expected a little more endurance from a legendary man such as you." Rador leaned over and grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head upwards until they were eye-to-eye.

Glazed silver eyes fluttered wearily open, but widened slightly when a small vial entered their line of sight. Unexpectedly, Thorongil pulled back with all his strength, freeing himself momentarily. Then the guards grabbed for him again, one of them pummeling him in the stomach, before pinning him back down. Chest heaving from the effort, Thorongil finally lay subdued. But he clenched his jaw tightly, eyes flashing dangerously when Rador again advanced with the vial.

"Excellent, excellent," Rador lauded. "I do hope you didn't put up that little fight just for me…"

"I'm not taking any of your poisons," Thorongil ground out between his teeth. There were a thousand possibilities as to what the clear liquid could be, but he had a pretty good guess it wasn't water. Beatings he could handle—he hoped—but, more than that, he feared what he might become under the influence of mind-drugs, or poison.

"I didn't think you'd be cooperative. So ready to sacrifice yourself, aren't you, Captain? But would you be so defiant, I wonder, if it were someone _else _in danger?"

Thorongil forced any fear he felt not to show. "You are full of idle threats."

"So you say. But would you care to test this one?"

Thorongil clenched his jaw tighter, but the resistance was gone from his demeanor. He was blind to everything going on outside of his cell, and completely powerless. He'd given his word to Thengel that he'd watch over Morwen. Now, it appeared the only way he could do that was do as he was commanded—or threatened—to do, and pray to Illúvatar that the situation without wasn't nearly so grim. Surely Morwen couldn't be in danger. He didn't know who "else" Rador could be talking about, but he feared to ask lest he draw attention to the Queen, and his own fear for her safety.

Rador saw the defiance drain from him, and thrust the vial forward. Thorongil drank. In truth, it didn't taste bad. In his thirsty, feverish state it was pleasant to taste liquid of any kind.

"See? That wasn't so difficult. Oh…but I did forget to ask you before we began: are you ready to accept the terms?"

"Guess."

"Very well, if you wish to play thatgame. I should warn you, thought, my self-control is about spent. I am not a patient man."

Thorongil smiled humorlessly. "Really?"

Rador's eyes were hard as they flickered briefly to the two guards. "I intend to get an answer—" Rador slammed his boot into the side of his head again "—_my _answer—" He kicked him in the side, barely missing his only partially-healed dagger wound. "—and it would be in your best interest to tell me _now_." Rador made a slow circuit around him. "Although, if you'd like this to take all day, I assure you, _I_ won't mind at all."

Thorongil didn't answer, taking the short pause to catch his breath.

"Your answer?" Rador demanded.

"My answer remains the same, and _will_ remain the same."

"We'll see about that." Rador eyes hardened, flickering briefly to the two guards. "Hold him."

Thorongil was hauled up by his arms again, grimacing against the pain. One of them then commenced to cut away his shirt. The thin undershirt had afforded him little enough protection, but he felt even more vulnerable with it gone. He felt his heart speed up with fear at a precursor he was all too familiar with. He had a dozen different ideas as to what might come next, all of which only made his heart pump more urgently.

He closed his eyes briefly. _Pull yourself together, Thorongil. _

Usually, if he just distracted himself—thought about anything but what might happen to him next—he could compose himself somewhat. But even his most tranquil memories of Rivendell failed to ease the panic that was gripping him. The fact that he couldn't seem to calm himself, as he usually could, only served to double the feeling of powerlessness. Then he remembered the vial, and its contents that he'd been forced to drink. He examined the way his heart was hammering away in his chest, and tried to be as detached about the panic he was feeling as possible. It wasn't working. Whatever it was he'd been given, it appeared to have a great effect upon emotions. He forced his mind, at least, to relax, even if it was next to impossible to make his body do the same.

Realizing that his eyes were still closed, he reopened them. Rador's grinning face met his. And he was holding another vial.

Rador offered mock sympathy. "Don't look so worried. I'm not going to make you drink _this_. I don't have many limitations as to what I can with you, but I do need you alive in the end."

"How comforting," Thorongil enthused dryly.

"I thought you might find it so." Rador uncorked the vial. "And now, down to business."

For the first time, Thorongil noticed the thin stick that he held. It was a little longer than a man's hand, and as he watched, Rador dipped it into the vial. He also noticed, now, that Rador had put on thick leather gloves. If he'd put his mind to it, he might have been able to make an educated guess as to what was in the vial, but he purposely kept his mind blank. Thinking too much at a time like this was never a good idea.

"I've never tried this either, Captain, so it will be a learning experience for both of us." Rador withdrew the stick from the vial.

Thorongil had to hold back a surprised gasp of pain, as Rador touched his shoulder with its tip. His expression of surprise was not lost on Rador.

"Burns, does it?"

Rador traced a line down his collar bone, and then on to his next shoulder, the thin instrument leaving a trail of fiery pain in its wake. He pulled it back just long enough to dip it again, before running it across his chest, this time turning it slightly length-wise to cover more skin. This time Thorongil did utter a small gasp. Elbereth, it felt like a live _coals_.

Rador was obviously pleased. "And here I was half afraid it wouldn't work." He admired his work: lines of red were beginning to spread across Thorongil's skin. "Anything to say before we continue? No? I was hoping you'd say that." He ran the stick along his side, touching the edges of his already inflamed dagger wound. Thorongil moaned as he repeated the movement, going back over the same skin and adding another layer of burning pain. Rador paused to order the guards. "Unbind him."

The guards obeyed, cutting the cords that bound his wrists in front of him. Thorongil nearly moaned again, as the blood rushed to his fingertips, and his arms and shoulders were released from the position they'd been forced to endure for the last hours. The guards' fingers dug into his skin as they each gripped one of his arms.

Rador wasn't done with the vial, either. He steeled himself to keep from flinching away, but when Rador began to trace the stick along the sensitive skin of his inner forearm he automatically jerked away. And he couldn't stop jerking away reflexively, every time he applied the burning substance. His mind told him to clamp his mouth shut and hold firm, but soon he wasn't doing very good at either one. He clenched his teeth, but a hiss of pain escaped him, and as the stick touched his arm again, he pulled back, trying to wrench himself from the guards' hold.

Rador knew how to time things perfectly, stopping periodically to ask him the same question, and when he didn't receive the answer he wanted, pushing on until he got a reaction out of him. And Thorongil soon found that the drug that he'd been forced to drink earlier did, indeed, play upon its victim's emotions. Every twinge of fear he felt seemed to be magnified until he felt engulfed in a whirlwind of panic and irrational thoughts. He felt lost in a haze of confusion and pain, and only a small, grounded part of him stubbornly kept him from replying "yes" to any of Rador's questions. It was something to do with his honor, something to do with the Queen, something to do with keeping his word to Thengel… His thoughts because less and less clear, but he held on to the fact that he simply _must not give in_. Logic also kept reminding him of Rador's previous words: he was still needed alive. They wouldn't do anything fatal. They probably couldn't even do serious damage. It _felt_ like serious damage, though.

His senses seemed to fade in and out—one minute rising to a level he didn't know existed, and then declining until he thought for certain that he was going to pass out. But he didn't. Just when the blackness reached out to enfold him, pain would spike through him, jolting him to awareness. And always—_always—_there was Rador's grinning face to greet him, whenever he roused himself enough to open his eyes and lift his head.

When the flashes of burning pain did stop at last, he only slumped limply in the guards' hold, hardly daring to hope that Rador could actually be done. Although he'd been bracing himself for it, he still almost cried out when he felt the burning sensation again, this time unexpectedly close to his face. He jerked his head away, as Rador began to tip his chin up using the stick. His jaw stung from even the brief contact.

"Having second thoughts yet?" Rador taunted. "So you're still not talking to me." He chuckled, shaking his head. "You want to make this difficult, don't you?" He spoke through an exaggerated yawn. "Well I don't know about you, but this talk has thoroughly worn me out. It must be nearing noon already."

Thorongil couldn't repress a shudder when Rador motioned to one of the guards. So far, commands from Rador only meant more pain. But, at least he'd put away the dreaded vial and stick. Whatever came next might be half bearable. Not that he was congratulating himself upon having survived yet. However, the returning guard only brought a flask and cup.

"I call a truce, Captain."

Thorongil looked wearily at Rador, too exhausted to be quizzical. Rador would do what he would do. There was no stopping him. Rador pulled the stopper out of the flask, pouring some of its contents into the cup. The sound of trickling liquid filled the small cell, and reminded him of just how thirsty he'd become. He looked purposefully away, unwilling to let Rador see just how tempting a drink of water sounded.

Rador took a small sip, then a longer one, draining the glass. He took a satisfied breath. Echoing his own thoughts, he asked, "Ah, amazing how good a simple cup of water can taste, isn't it?" As usual, not receiving any response, he sighed and poured himself another cup full. "Thorongil, Thorongil, this is really getting most tedious, talking to myself…"

Thorongil tried to block the sound of the water filling the cup. "Then why don't you stop?" For having been meant arrogantly, the retort came out annoyingly faint and slurred.

"So you do still possess a voice. Wonderful." Rador took another sip of the water, and then turned the cup sideways, allowing the rest of it to slowly—ever so excruciatingly slowly—trickle out, onto the floor.

Despite himself, Thorongil couldn't help but watch, swallowing thickly.

Rador squatted in front of him, holding the flask just inches from his face. "There's more where that came from. And wine, ale, and a soft bed, for that matter—all waiting for you beyond this cell. Consider your answer again, Captain."

The drug was wearing off slightly, or at least ebbing briefly, leaving him a modicum of power over his own mind again. Thorongil fought with all his will to sound firm for just one more reply. "No. I will _not_ abandon Thengel-King in his hour of need." He didn't know what evidence they held against him, he didn't know how dire the situation outside the dungeons was, he didn't know why someone was so determined to make him leave, he just didn't _know_… But he knew Thengel would clear it all up when he returned, and he would have to bank on that hope for now. Whether it was Heolstor or someone else, whoever was responsible for this situation had no good intentions for Rohan, of that he was certain.

Rador was at the cell door now. "Just think about it, Captain. Some loyalties can be taken too far. Thengel wouldn't want you _dead_." He nodded to the guards. "Tie him back up as he was."

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**To be continued…**

**About the poisons: **I'd just like to briefly mention, for anyone curious, that I _have_ done some research for the poisons used in this story. Although the poisons themselves aren't real, and I've given them my own names (as you'll see later on), I did find the basis for them in real-life herbs. I figured I did have some leeway, since this is Middle Earth, after all, and the poisons are various mixed concoctions of the brilliant-but-sick-minded Heolstor. But they aren't _completely_ the product of my vivid imagination. :)

**I can say in complete honesty this was one of, if not **_**the**_**, hardest chapter of the entire story to write. Cami kept on telling me I had to really dive whole-heartedly into this last scene instead of skirting around it, as would have been my inclination. So…I'd really, really like to know what people think about it. –flashes readers her most persuasive smile- **


	16. Trial and Error

**A/N: Apologies to any of you who received late/short/generally weird review responses… I've been having a few problems lately with a reaction to a bug (possibly tick) bite. Lymes disease antibiotics are officially no fun to take. But at least I can use my arm now, so as far as writing goes I think I'm back in business—and without even missing an update. Go me:) **

For those of you who haven't recieved responses at all yet: I will be sending them soon! I just thought, since the update was ready, I'd do this first. ;)

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**Chapter 16: Trial and Error**

At first he'd thought it was his imagination. Of course Meduseld would seem dark and gloomy after having been riding in the fresh, open air for weeks. It was a bright, sunny day outside, which only made the progression from outdoors to indoors all the more noticeable. But soon Thengel realized that the feeling of gloom was coming from more than just his own perceptions of the darkness. An almost tangible heaviness hung over Meduseld, and it was easy to recognize the wariness in the servants scurrying past. They were frightened of something.

It was apparent, from the way his brows were drawn together, that Silfren had sensed the same thing. Of the three of them, only Théoden seemed unaffected.

Wanting to talk with Silfren without worrying his son, Thengel urged, "Théoden, why don't you go find your mother, hmm?"

Théoden grinned at the idea, immediately darting off ahead. He'd enjoyed the trip, but it felt wonderful to be home—and he was dying to tell his mother all about the journey.

The moment he was out of hearing, Silfren spoke, "What do you think is wrong?"

"I was hoping you might have an idea."

"None whatsoever."

"I hope Eothald hasn't done anything regrettable. Like get himself drunk," Thengel stated darkly. He knew Eothald was harmless enough, but he had a nagging feeling that leaving a "harmless" person in charge might not have been one of his wisest decisions. He was anxious, now, to find out how Eothald had done in his absence. "Let us find him, and see how he has performed his duties while I was away."

Silfren nodded grimly, and followed him towards Eothald's private chambers. "I have a bad feeling about all this, your Majesty."

"Well you could have told me that _before_ we left," Thengel growled.

"I'm still working on perfecting my foresight, Majesty," Silfren responded, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. They'd had this conversation, in varying forms, and on varying subjects, many times before.

Thengel knocked on Eothald's door.

"Enter."

Eothald, with Heolstor across from him, sat around a round table, situated to one side of the room. Heolstor rose immediately, Eothald responding to his presence at a slower rate.

"My Lord," Heolstor exclaimed in surprise.

"My Lord!" Eothald echoed him. After an awkward pause, he added, "We did not expect you back so soon, but it is good to have you back, my Lord."

Thengel smiled, and only Silfren noticed the uneasiness that lingered in the tightness of his features. "Yes, well I dare say we made the return trip a little more quickly than we need have, and thus shortened the journey by a day or so."

Another long pause followed, as Eothald continued to blink rather blearily at them.

The tightness in Thengel's face ebbed a little. Apparently, there was no _emergency_… "It is good to be back." Testing his words, he probed cautiously, "Has anything happened while I was away?"

A look of unease flickered across Eothald's face. "Well…uh…there has…"

Thengel's gaze roved between Heolstor and Eothald. He could feel Silfren supportive presence close behind him. "Well? Report," he commanded sternly. If something had gone wrong, then he wanted a full explanation as soon as possible, not this cowardly stalling.

Heolstor spoke up softly. "I'm afraid something has happened, my Lord… Thorongil…he…" His voice trailed off miserably.

"Will someone tell me what is going on? What about Thorongil?" Thengel demanded. He was now suddenly distinctly aware of Thorongil's absence. Surely word had spread by now that he was back. Why wasn't Thorongil here reporting to him, as he'd always done so promptly? "Eothald—_speak now_."

Eothald gulped, but drew himself up, all of a sudden looking not quite so timid. His voice was unwavering, and held even a tinge of confidence. "Thorongil has been arrested."

Thengel and Silfren stared at him.

"And what, pray tell, has he been arrested _for_?" Thengel asked, his voice deceptively devoid of emotion.

"On the grounds of treason." Eothald stated it almost proudly.

"Where is he?"

"In prison, of course, awaiting his trial."

Thengel's voice remained colorless, his face frozen in barely registered and controlled shock. "Trial. I see. Eothald, you are relieved of your duties as of now." His eyes drilled into Eothald. "Would you care to explain your reasons for arresting him?"

Eothald's mouth worked silently a few minutes, as he cringed under the sweltering anger that emanated from Thengel. "I-I…" He swallowed and lifted his chin determinately. "I have my reasons, but they are too elaborate to present at moment's notice. I wouldn't have arrested him if I didn't have a _number_ of good reasons."

It took all Thengel's powers of self-control not to do physical damage to his brother—by _law_, thankfully, not _blood_—at that moment. "The 'trial' will take place in ten minutes. Bring the…prisoner to the Golden Hall. Along with your _evidence_." Then he turned on his heel without another word.

Silfren followed him out of the room. He didn't dare say a word until Thengel chose to speak to him. He recognized the bland tone the King was using, and knew to respect it and hold his peace. He knew the kind of explosion such false "calmness" could be a forerunner to. With Thengel, it was always the calm before the storm. And so he only followed, practically jogging to keep up with Thengel's long strides. That wasn't a good sign either, he decided, with an inward grimace.

"Come, Silfren, we must talk."

Silfren didn't waste his breath sighting in relief, but hurried to Thengel's side. "Yes, your Majesty?"

"Don't start being discreet and diplomatic now Silfren—I need you to talk to me. What on Arda has possessed them all? I need answers, Silfren, and I need them _now_."

"I don't know the answers any more than you do, my friend…"

Thengel was silent again. They had reached the Golden Hall. He strode up the short flight of stairs and sank onto the throne in the center of the dais. Silfren took his place on the seat to his left, and waited patiently.

Thengel was leaning on one elbow, running thumb and forefinger repeatedly over his beard. "Treason, Silfren, _treason_. And Thorongil of all people… What madness is this?"

Knowing his lord's moods well, Silfren only nodded, waiting for the opportune moment to give input.

"It's as if the moment I turn my back all Mordor has broken loose! What accusation could they possibly have against Thorongil? What _plausible _accusation could they possibly have?"

"I can't think of any, myself," Silfren said quietly. "We shall just have to wait and see."

To his relief, Thengel appeared to be calming. "Aye, you are right, of course. But this whole thing seems like a farce or an elaborate joke. Not an amusing one."

"It's bound to be a mistake, my Lord. All shall be explained."

"Yes, it _shall_."

People were beginning to drift into the hall, trickling in one by one. Word had spread, either of the King's return, or of the trial, or probably of both. Curiosity and concern showed on the faces of most of those gathering. They hung back in the shadows of the pillars, watching and waiting for something to happen.

"Thengel!"

Thengel's head snapped around at sound of the familiar voice. He rose when he saw Morwen coming towards him, along with Théoden, Araedhelm, and Captain Anborn. To his confusion, two guards were with her as well. One was timidly supporting her… Then he realized she was limping.

"Morwen?"

Morwen disdainfully stepped away from the guard, shooting him an annoyed glance, but then turned a brighter countenance on Thengel. "Thengel, thank the gods you are back."

Thengel held out his hand to her. "You are hurt…"

She brushed it off. "I only sprained my ankle—it is nothing, truly." She glanced around at the gathering crowed. "What is happening?"

"Oh, nothing, my dear," Thengel's eyes too wandered over the murmuring clusters of people. "This is all one big joke of some kind. The _trial_," he spat out the word. "of Captain Thorongil will soon take place."

"Then you received my message?" Morwen leaned towards him, still furtively keeping watch out of the corner of her eye. "I was hoping I could also be the first to talk to you, in private, as soon you'd returned, but certain…limitations have made it quite impossible for me to know anything of what goes on outside my rooms these last few days, and—"

"Limitations?" Thengel looked at her in confusion. "And what message?"

Morwen instantly regretted having used that particular choice of words. Thengel would never let it drop, and right now she only wished to be filling him in about Thorongil's predicament. "I sent a messenger to warn you of circumstances here." Thengel's frown deepened. They were definitely going to have to look into the whereabouts of the messenger. Later. Morwen had a bad feeling about what could have happened to him, but there was no need to jump to conclusions. The man had been intelligent and responsible and efficient—she wouldn't have sent him otherwise—but he could have gotten…lost. She blocked other thoughts of reasons for his failure momentarily from her mind, not wanting to dwell just now on any more sinister possibilities. "I'll tell you about it later, right now it's the Captain I'm worried about."

The sound of a throat being cleared nearby alerted them to the presence of Captain Anborn, who stood patiently before the throne, with Araedhelm just behind him.

"Sire, things have been somewhat…chaotic since your return. Forgive me for interrupting but, what is all of this? Do you wish a formal report…now…here?"

Thengel almost smiled at Anborn's obvious bewilderment. "Oh, no, no, Captain. No need for a formal report. This… Well, I'm waiting for the 'prisoner' to be brought to trial."

Understanding flooded Anborn's face in an almost comical rush. Araedhelm, behind him, burst out with a "But my Lord he hasn't done it—", which was quickly cut off by Thengel, as well as Anborn's immovable arm holding him back.

Responding to them both, Thengel said resolutely, "Do not worry, Lieutenant, whatever 'it' is, I'm certain Thorongil hasn't done it. He will have a fair trial—and a quick one if I have anything to say about it."

"And, being the King, _Sire_, you do have _some _say in the matter." Silfren smiled encouragingly.

Anborn looked over his shoulder, as loud footsteps heralded the approach of soldiers. "I believe the… prisoner has just arrived." He bowed to Thengel, and hauled a still-adamant Araedhelm to the side.

Eothald and Heolstor approached first, and when they parted, moving a little to either side, Thengel received his first glimpse of the accused. He wasn't entirely sure of what he'd been expecting, but it certainly wasn't _this_… This bedraggled version of his friend. His attention turned from the threadbear tunic he was wearing, to the chains manacling his wrists, to the bruises that marked his haggard face. He hadn't had enough time to pause and actually consider what being imprisoned might entail, other than limited freedom and humiliation.

He looked over, briefly, at his wife. Morwen's usually gentle eyes were fiercely lit. Théoden, by her side, looked ready to attack the guards that flanked Thorongil, restraining his arms. But Morwen held his hand, and he could but watch his hero's humiliation, and clench his small jaw in childish indignation.

Thengel turned a stony face back on the small procession, aiming his specific attention towards Eothald, who squirmed satisfactorily. "State your charges against Captain Thorongil, and show your evidence, if you have any."

Eothald rallied his courage at hearing the questions. "The charge is simple, my Lord. He is a traitor."

A ripple of surprise waved over the still ever-multiplying crowd of onlookers.

"And your evidence?" Thengel inquired with deceptive coolness.

Eothald motioned to Heolstor. "Bring it."

Heolstor looked miserable, but he complied, handing him a small stack of paper.

Eothald took the paper on top, the one from a man called "Halbarad", unfolded it, and began to read aloud, emphasizing certain points. He concluded, "Nothing so sinister as these next letters I am about to show you, but it does imply a great deal, does it not? Obviously, the good _Captain _had lofty ambitions from the very start."

Thengel raised an eyebrow. "So now those with high aspirations automatically fall under the category of traitors?"

Hesitant laughter came from the crowd, and Eothald's face flushed red. "No, of course not, I merely point out that he may not be so very humble and ready to _serve _as he's led us all to believe."

"I'm still waiting for the evidence," Thengel said, voice frigid.

"Very well, then listen to this," Eothald shoved the previous letter back at Heolstor and energetically held up the next letter. "You see this?" He walked closer to the dais.

Thengel looked. And shrugged. "All I see is a letter, written in some elvish script…"

"Exactly! Elvish. What business does he have conversing with _elves_? He's always kept his past very close. Haven't you ever stopped to consider the reason? Maybe there are secrets there he can't afford to have anyone know, maybe—"

"Maybe the Captain simply prefers to keep his private life _private_."

Thengel concurred wholeheartedly with Araedhelm's outburst, but he had to keep this "trial"—however ridiculous—somewhat formal. If only to get it over with more quickly. He nodded to Anborn, who helpfully gripped Araedhelm by the shoulder.

At the same time, Thengel took a moment to glance over at Thorongil again. He stood stolidly between his guards. Thengel noted the way his shoulders had begun to slump since Eothald had begun to read the letters, and the way he closed his eyes, wearily bowing his head just slightly. Dark hair fell forward to hide much of his features, but he could still make out the unmistakable look of dejection on his face. No guilt, no fear, just a sad kind of resignation.

It was then that Thengel realized exactly what this must be doing to the private, quiet captain, who even in his moments of honor had always preferred to take a back seat, sometimes almost to the point of appearing shy. Now, he was being purposefully, and publicly humiliated, having his until-now carefully secret past paraded around for all to see.

Feeling his anger building, he decided the sooner they ended this the better. "Lord Eothald, if this is all you have to show…"

Eothald interrupted the King eagerly. "Oh no! That's not all! That not _nearly_ all I have to show." He unfolded the last letter. "Here I have a letter—would you like to hear how it begins?"

"Only if it bears directly on this subject."

"Yes, of course." For a second, Eothald donned an almost apologetic expression. "I must ask the Queen's pardon for using this particular evidence, since it does bring her into this unfortunate business, but since his Majesty won't accept—"

Thengel set up rigidly. "What do you mean by that? What about the Queen?"

"I pains me to have to tell you this, but while you were away, this traitor attempted to seduce your wife. No doubt to further his plans by taking advantage of your trust."

"How dare you bring such accusations!" Thengel exploded.

Eothald waved the paper in his hand, holding it aloft as if the very sight would win his case. "But you have not heard this yet. _This _is a letter which may cause you to think differently about what I say." Before Thengel order him to stop, he began to read, starting with the tender address, "_My Dearest_," and after many tender but vague endearments, ending with, "_Your future queen_."

By now, Thengel was ready spring from the throne and mete out justice, personally, on Eothald. But Eothald, in his drug-induced frenzy, wasn't nearly finished.

"What about this?" he almost yelled in triumph, now holding out a lock of dark hair. "This was also found with the letter." His wild eyes flew to Morwen. "A lock of dark hair—obviously a woman's."

Morwen could bear it no longer, and rose stiffly. "And you say it is _mine_?" Before Thengel could react, she'd briskly stalked forward and snatched the lock of hair from Eothald. She held it close to a strand of her own wavy locks. "Look!" She smiled disdainfully at Eothald. "They do not even match." Next to each other, it was easy to see the difference: the lock of hair held against Morwen's was obviously darker, as well as straighter. She grabbed the letter from Eothald's suddenly nerveless fingers, placing the lock of hair on it and refolding it with reverence. "This belong solely to Thorongil—and was not penned by me."

Thengel didn't bother to cover his own contempt. "I believe this trial is at an end." His attention couldn't help but continue to wander back to Thorongil. Although he was obviously trying to hide his emotions, they had been all too plain when Eothald had opened the supposedly damning love letter. Even now, the mortification had not left his expression, and in the aftermath he looked unusually vulnerable. "Release the prisoner."

Eothald didn't know defeat when he saw it. Desperately, he ordered Heolstor to hand him the last piece of evidence. When he held _it _aloft, he finally received the shocked silence he'd been searching for.

Morwen stared at the gold and green chain of office that dangled from his fingers. "Where did you get that?"

Thengel was on his feet. Silfren frowned. All of them recognized the piece of jewelry as the prince's royal chain of office.

Eothald smirked. "I found it in Captain Thorongil's room, in his desk. Now do you begin to see my reasoning? Captain Thorongil has been playing a double game: smiling and charming to your face, and plotting to take your kingdom behind your back."

Thengel was frozen. He didn't know what to think. Thorongil couldn't be guilty of Eothald's mad accusations, he just could believe it… If the look of dazed surprise on Thorongil's face was any indication, he was just as confused as any of them. But how had this come into his possession, then? After the recent attempt on his life, he was inclined to think it might have been purposefully planted. But by whom, and why…? Eothald was acting completely out of character—he was like different man—but surely he still wouldn't have done such a thing.

Eothald, exultant in his success, was still gloating aloud. "He's quite a skilled deceiver. Who knows what his plans were, but in time, no doubt, he planned on slitting your throats, or hiring someone else to do it."

"Liar!" The youthful voice rang out with righteous anger. Théoden scrambled down the dais to his mother's side, glaring all the while at Eothald, and looking frighteningly like his father. "Thorongil didn't steal it or…do whatever it is you're saying he did. I know he didn't!"

"Théo, do you know something about this? Do you know how this came to be in Thorongil's desk?" Morwen took him gently by the shoulder.

In his wrath, Théoden was too worked up to care that Morwen had used the embarrassing abbreviation of his name in public. He nodded vigorously. "Yes, I do." Feeling the eyes of so many people on him, he shifted a little nervously from foot to foot. "I…put it there." He rushed to explain, "I put it there because…well…I-I knew it was worth a lot, and I wanted to give Thorongil a surprise…for his birthday."

For the first time, the silence in the room was not caused by strain, but rather the opposite, as many tried to conceal their amusement. And relief. It even wiped the anger of Thengel's face for a moment.

The King's face hardened again when he spoke to Eothald. "I think my son's word is trustworthy evidence, enough to shatter this last bit of 'proof'."

Eothald's face was completely devoid of color by now. "B-but I…I was sure he…had to…"

If he hadn't been so blindly furious by now, Thengel might have actually felt a touch of pity, for the man was genuinely confused now. He'd been completely convinced that his case was a just and true one.

But Thengel wasn't in a forgiving mood. His eyes burned into Eothald's miserable form, as he spoke with a barely-controlled voice. "Release Captain Thorongil. This trial _is _over."

The chains rattled for a few moments, as the guards hastened to obey. During the trial, they'd both begun to realize the possible danger of their position, and were quick to let go of Thorongil.

For the second time, Thorongil's eyes met the King's. He offered a wan smile. A _very _wan smile. If his smile lacked cheerfulness, however, his eyes didn't lack gratitude. The contact was broken when Thorongil began to sway slightly. Opportunely, Araedhelm was already at his side offering support. Thengel's premature relief was clouded with concern, and he too rushed forward.

"Captain, are you well?" Araedhelm asked, allowing Thorongil to lean heavily on his shoulder.

Thorongil nodded, but the gesture was feeble at best. The sudden cough that wracked his frame instantly belied his answer. Araedhelm wouldn't have been fooled anyways.

"Don't even start telling me you're 'fine'—you're shaking, Captain," Araedhelm whispered fiercely, as he began to support Thorongil as they continued down the long hall. He knew that if his Captain were shaking, it wasn't from fear.

Thengel walked at his other side, and a small and worried procession formed behind him, Morwen and Théoden included. The crowd began to disperse, but some still watched them leave with open concern.

Araedhelm wasn't paying attention to anyone but Thorongil. He hadn't failed to notice the way his captain was becoming more and more dependent upon him for support—or the way he simultaneously seemed to flinch away from contact. Araedhelm was almost as relieved as Thorongil when they reached his room, and Thorongil slumped down onto the bed. Araedhelm took to eyeing him with redoubled anxiety when an ill-concealed moan fled his lips as he leaned back against the headboard.

"Captain, how much did they hurt you?" Araedhelm asked point blank.

Behind him, Thengel was listening with mounting alarm. He stepped closer to the bed, watching Thorongil just as closely as his lieutenant. "Are you hiding wounds, Captain? Or should I say _trying _to hide wounds? It's obvious you're hurt in some way." Without turning, he called for Neylor.

The call was unnecessary, for, by quickly spread rumor, or pure instinct, Neylor was already shuffling through the door. By way of explanation, he only muttered as he set his supplies down on the bed stand, "I had a feeling you wouldn't stay healed for long. Reckless men like you never do… Now, let's see what the damage is."

Thorongil looked the epitome of embarrassment, glancing from worried face to worried face, yet all of them unyielding in one regard. Even Théoden, holding tight to Morwen's hand, was watching him evenly. With a soft moan, he relaxed into the softness of the pillows behind him. Eru it felt wonderful… And, Eru, did he feel old and tired. The throbbing of his irritated skin was incessant, and all he wanted was to lose the pain to unconsciousness.

"No sleeping quite yet, Captain."

Thorongil blinked, realized he had in fact begun to drift off. Upon opening his eyes, he realized that the room had cleared out, with only Araedhelm and Thengel remaining. No doubt thanks to some of Neylor's 'magic'. He stared wearily into the old man's craggy face, hearing him talk, without actually _listening_. Dismally, he realized that the draught of nameless drug Rador had given him early that day had yet lose its last effects. He forced himself to pour all his limited attention into focusing on Neylor's voice. At least it was something to focus on, other than the pain.

Neylor was looking intently into his eyes, placing a cool hand against his temple. "Just as I thought. It would appear you've managed to get yet another concussion. If you ever fully recovered the first time." He frowned disapprovingly.

"It wasn't like I _asked_ to be repeatedly hit in the head…" Thorongil muttered. Had he looked up, he could have seen his lieutenant, fairly bristling with anger.

Neylor's frown of disapproval melted into frown of concentration. "Be that as it may, here you are, in a sorry state once again. I don't suppose you gave that knife wound proper time to heal, either?"

Even in his tired state, Thorongil knew not to push his luck with a healer, but his mind overflowed with sarcastic retorts. _Of course not, reckless patient that I am, I tore out the stitches the moment you turned your back. After that, I decided prison might be a good place to recuperate… _

Neylor shook his head. "Let's get it over with, and have a look at it." He motioned to Araedhelm. "Get his shirt off while I retrieve the water. It should be hot enough by now."

Araedhelm, who'd had more experience dealing with a wounded Thorongil than he cared to think of, knew better than to assume his appointed task would be simple. He took courage in the fact that his captain hardly looked capable of putting up much of a fight. He was even more encouraged when he actually managed to loosen the first couple laces of Thorongil's shirt _without _having his hand swatted at.

Of course, a complaint was still in order. Thorongil murmured something about being "perfectly capable of undoing his own shirt"—and then promptly proved himself wrong by failing in the simple task of sitting up straight.

"Captain, just relax," Araedhelm urged.

Thorongil obeyed at first, but the next moment his whole body tensed. Araedhelm halted, staring as the source of his pain was revealed in part.

Neylor was back, looking over his shoulder as he set down a bowl of steaming water. His face was very sober as he unceremoniously pushed Araedhelm out of his was to get a better view. "I think your dagger might be of use once again, Lieutenant," he said calmly.

The only healing experience Araedhelm could claim had come from the battle field, and this was unlike anything he'd seen there. But if he was any judge, the redness that covered much of the skin on Thorongil's chest looked suspiciously like burns. More blisters were uncovered as Neylor cut away the rest of his shirt. Thorongil shivered as the comparatively cool air made contact with his skin. Noticing it for the first time, Araedhelm saw that there was even a red mark under his chin, streaking across his jaw. It made him flinch just to look at it.

Neylor was looking dismally at the inflamed knife wound, which had obviously been healing well—until recently. Now it looked to be infected. Neylor began his work without comment, glancing at neither king nor lieutenant.

Unwilling to do nothing as he had last time, Araedhelm hovered close behind Neylor, trying to contain his emotions for the time being, but feeling for all the world like running from the room to hunt down Eothald. He'd dearly have enjoyed squeezing information out of that man—such as who'd done this to Thorongil. If Eothald had personally done it, then the worse for him. Much worse.

Neylor spared him a precious second, taking the time to shoot him an irritated glare. "You're making me nervous. Do something useful for a change. Take another cloth and wipe his face."

Araedhelm moved to comply.

"No," Neylor snapped. "Use the bowl of cold water—keep his face cool. He's running a bit of a fever. And give him some to drink, too. We don't want to have dehydration to worry about on top of everything else."

"A little late for that, I think," Thorongil muttered.

Then it was Thengel's turn to hover. The minutes ticked by slowly, and when Neylor didn't come up with something for him to do, he began to pace, running a distracted hand through his hair. He didn't know who he was angrier at: Eothald, or himself. How many days had he wasted in getting here? How many times had he slowed his pace to a leisurely one? He couldn't have known, but it tore at his heart to think of what had been going on while he was gone. Not only had Thorongil suffered, but undoubtedly Morwen had as well. He was dying to talk to her, and hear everything, but he had to know about Thorongil first.

Araedhelm was in just as much turmoil, trying to ignore the occasional moans of his friend and captain, as Neylor continued the painful, but necessary, job of cleaning his wounds. He turned the events of the last few weeks over and over in his mind, and kept coming to a dead end whenever he tried to think of something he could have done to prevent this. That didn't mean he couldn't blame himself. Guilt, at least, was a change in emotions from anger.

Thorongil was finding it increasingly hard to stay awake. At first, even Neylor's gentle care felt brutal on his irritated skin, but when he began smoothing some cool ointment over the burns it felt _wonderful_—so wonderful, he found it difficult to keep prying his eyelids back open. He felt more coolness, touching his face, and could easily guess who the other someone at his side might be. He wanted to talk to Araedhelm, but knew his energy was too far spent to do so yet. He just relaxed, fighting against sleep with all his remaining willpower. The last thing he remembered was finally being released by a voice somewhere to his right.

"We'll have to wake you periodically, but you can go to sleep for now, Captain.

It was all he needed to hear.

* * *

**To be continued… **

**You like? I hope so. -g- Thank you, peoples, for the splenderific reviews I've been receiving. :) **


	17. The Storm Before the Calm

**_See first chapter for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes. _**

**A/N: I'm late…sorry. I've been too busy to even say something on my LJ about being late. I kinda forgot about updating until Friday, and then was gone most of the day running errands (and was too exhausted to finish editing when I got home), and today I've been catching up on a bunch of cleaning… So, hope those excuses are acceptable. -g- Here is your update. Thank you for the tremendous feedback on the last chapter—you lovely reviewers really deserved an timely update…sorry. :-(**

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**Chapter 17: The Storm Before the Calm**

"Tell me _everything_. If you leave out a single detail, I will detect it, and have it out of you eventually. I want to know exactly what they did to Thorongil." Thengel was in not in a mood to be trifled with, as all in the room recognized.

Morwen and Anborn listened attentively to the conversation between king and healer without comment. Even Araedhelm knew now was a time to let the king do the first talking.

Naylor never cringed, but in this instance he appeared to be taking mercy on his lord, not debating or employing his habitual show of arrogant insubordination. He might not cringe, but in this instance he was uncharacteristically hesitant. "Well… He does have concussion, and his wound has been reopened, so I imagine he was knocked around quite a bit…"

Thengel crossed his arms. "That, I already guessed."

Naylor ran a hand across his scraggily beard. "As for the rest of his wounds… The burns, for instance, were not caused by fire. It looks like they used a kind of acid, or something…"

"Acid?" the King repeated.

"Yes, it would be extremely painful, and feel much like being burnt with fire, only it would cause less initial damage." Naylor stopped, realizing this line of thinking would only fan the King's temper into full blaze. He didn't like the look on Araedhelm's face, either. "Other than that: a few broken ribs, lots of bruises, dehydration…"

"What are you omitting now?" Thengel demanded.

Naylor sighed in resignation. If they really _wanted _to know… "I believe he was drugged as well, although with what I can't be sure. Perhaps he can give us details when he is more recovered."

"Then he is doing well?" Morwen broke in.

Naylor nodded.

"Anything else?" Thengel was insistent.

Naylor decided it was time to be blunt. Let them all deal with their anger, he didn't want to pestered into repeat himself a dozen times. He looked Thengel square in the face. "My Lord, Captain Thorongil was imprisoned, tortured, and then put through a highly humiliating trial for a crime he didn't commit. His wounds are extremely painful, but not life-threatening. I have told you all there is to know about his condition, and now I suggest plenty of rest, and as little reference to his painful ordeal as possible, for I doubt he will wish to dwell upon the subject. Other than what I have told you about his condition, I can think of nothing more to add, although…" He shook his head, puzzled. "I did notice that, from the look of the bruises on his knees, he must have been forced to kneel for quite some time."

By now, Araedhelm was looking truly fearsome, and the noise he made upon hearing Naylor's words sounded nearly like a growl. His voice was low and menacing. "I should have got that key, no matter the cost, and got him out of there the first time I had the chance. Who knows how long they left him like that—perhaps _days_! In addition to whatever else they did to him…"

No one knew what to say at first, for Araedhelm appeared to be talking more to himself than anyone, but Naylor was always ready to pry.

"Left him like what?" the healer asked, keeping his tone almost casual.

Araedhelm let out another growl of anger, mingled with self-debasement. "Tied like that…" He shook his head, as words to describe it eluded him, and said simply, "He couldn't stand up _or_ lie down. When I find out who was responsible for that—all of this—they're going to regret having done it. Deeply."

Thengel had seen the consequences that came as a result of talking before thinking, rather then the other way around, but on this occasion his emotions formed the question aloud before he could check them. "When you saw him like that, why did you not put an end to it right then and there?" A split second later, he could have slapped himself for his rash words. Of course Araedhelm had _wanted _to do just that. But, of course, he couldn't have.

All his self-recriminations were confirmed by the guilt on Araedhelm's face, as he said quietly, "I would have—I came close to breaking him out several times—but…he stopped me." He smiled mirthlessly. "He talked 'sense' into me."

There was a heavy pause, before Thengel spoke equally quietly, "Forgive me, Lieutenant, I spoke unthinkingly. I know you wished to help him just as much as I would have had I been here. Perhaps more so. You are a loyal friend to him, and good soldier." He included Anborn and Morwen with a gesture. "All three of you did the best you could, given the circumstances. I only wish I had not created the situation in the first place." With a raised hand, he ended the murmurs of disagreement that instantly arose. "No, let me speak first, before you all try to dissuade me. Although this trouble may not have been my fault directly, it is my fault in enough other ways. For one thing, I should not have left Eothald in charge…"

Morwen rose impatiently. "I can't decide which of you is worse," she exclaimed, glancing between Araedhelm and Thengel. "No one knew Eothald would do the things he has done. We don't even know yet _why _he did it at all. But I have heard more than enough self-accusations. Blaming yourselves for any of this is ridiculous. When Captain Thorongil regains consciousness, he will tell you the same, and probably laugh at you for thinking like this."

Thengel listened to his wife's tirade, the tension beginning to ease from his rigid shoulders. When Morwen stopped to catch her breath, he held out his hand to her with a weary smile, and she took it. "You may bring sanity to this meeting after all, my dear. Yes, you are right, Thorongil probably will laugh. Though what there is to laugh _about _is beyond me. Eothald has betrayed my trust, something I never foresaw. As much as I'd like to put all this behind us, I don't think I can quite yet."

"And I didn't suggest it. I just think we must move forward, instead of regretting what we did or didn't do." She nodded towards a the neat stack on the table: the "evidence" which she'd carefully guarded since the trial. "The first step that needs to be taken is to return those to him. After that, we will see."

Naylor cleared his throat. "And speaking of whom…it is about time we did check on the patient."

**---o—oOo—o---**

Heolstor was seething with pent-up frustration. He felt the need to throw something like he hadn't in a long time.

He stalked from one end of his room to the next, without consciously thinking about his movements. Why was everything suddenly going wrong? It seemed like ever since he'd gone after Thorongil things had gone from bad to worse. How could one man make things so complicated? Even now, after he'd purposed not to, it appeared he'd underestimated the man. He should have had Rador slit his throat while he was defenseless in prison, far from prying eyes. But that was in the past. Now, nothing remained but to forge on ahead to the next level.

The next level.

Once again his anger nearly persuaded him to throw something. He cast aside the feeling, almost with disgust. He didn't have anyone to throw something _at _anyways, and where would be the fun without a target?

He paced some more, complex stratagems whirling through his mind, only to be discarded. What he needed was something simple. Something fool-proof. Something even a Wild Man might carry off successfully. Vague ideas began to consolidate. And after a half-hour, he was finally able to nod his head in satisfaction. His anger wasn't appeased yet, but he was convinced of his need to move on.

The sneer of a smile he wore was not a good omen, as Rador should have known the second he saw it, when he was admitted into the room after his knock on the door. Unfortunately for him, he came in with a bit too much swagger. He had nothing to be so proud of. In Heolstor's eyes, he had _nothing _to be proud of at all.

Rador stood in the center of the room, head erect. "You ordered me to report, my Lord?"

"Yes," Heolstor replied through clenched teeth. "I did."

The silence that ensued was long and painful for Rador, as he began to pick up on just how foul Heolstor's mood was. When the silence remained unbroken, he cleared his throat hesitantly. "Is there something…"

"Is there 'something'?" Heolstor scoffed. "Is that a guess?"

Rador opened his mouth, and then, in rare show of wisdom, shut it again.

"You _thought_ there was something _wrong_?" Heolstor repeated. "It doesn't take much brains to see _that_. To begin with, Thorongil is neither dead nor banished. Secondly, Thengel has heard the whole story. Thirdly—he is going to do something about it! Did you, perhaps, let slip something to Thorongil about Captain Heolstor having sent you?"

"No, my Lord, of course not—"

"Well, it would appear nothing is obvious for _you_. I thought I'd explained the plan in simple enough words."

Rador was uncharacteristically subdued, even to the point of sounding humble. "Yes, my Lord, I understood the plan—"

"Then why did you not _follow_ it!" Heolstor raged as loudly as he dared. "Why did you not wring a confession out of Captain Thorongil by the end of the first day? I gave you enough liberty, you were only to stop at _killing_ him."

"I know, my Lord, and did the best that I could, but he has a strong will, and confessing would have gone against his honor..."

Heolstor's cold blue eyes bore into him. "Yes. Captain Thorongil is stubborn and arrogant. That does not come as a surprise to me. However, I sent you to inflict pain and drive all thoughts of nobility from his mind. Whatever you did wasn't enough, and now it is too late. Once again he is beyond our reach, and under Thengel's protection. And that fool of an old healer will make sure he stays there until he is fully recovered. Soon he will be 'counseling' the King with words of wisdom and caution—probably regarding _me_. I have never been completely out of suspicion in his mind, and he's doubtless told Thengel as much many times. Now, with Eothald having done what he has, the King will probably in be in the state of mind to believe anything."

Rador watched Heolstor walk back and forth like a raging tiger, spouting his thoughts as quickly as they came to him. He hadn't been with Heolstor when he was like this before, readily offering his thoughts. If he hadn't been so afraid for his life, Rador might have been intrigued enough to enjoy it. But when Heolstor whirled on him again, his face was a carefully arranged mask of submission.

Heolstor was breathing heavily from his exertions. "Not that any of that concerns you. You were merely supposed to supply brute force, and failed even in that. Now you must leave. Not just this room—you must leave Edoras."

"I _have_ failed you, my Lord, but…"

"Yes, I know, you and your brothers sworn an oath to me, and I to you. No, I am not ordering you out of my services." Heolstor clasped his hands behind his back, and tried to calm himself. He didn't like Rador any more than he had a moment ago, but he did need the man's services. At any rate, he didn't need the man's _animosity_. Even a complete idiot, when aroused, could do considerable damage. Too much reproving would make a rebel of the vengeful kind out of Rador. He chose his next words carefully. "I am sending you away, but only because your presence here would invite more danger to all concerned. I expect Thorongil wasn't in the best of condition when he met you, but I can't risk him recognizing you. Knowing the royal temper, I wouldn't be surprised if Thengel were already looking for the man who hurt him. It won't do to have you here. I need your talents elsewhere."

Appeased, Rador bowed his head in acceptance. "Where will you send me, my Lord?"

"To join Mehdal. He's a few miles south of the city. I want you to bring Ceryn and take him this message." Heolstor picked up a folded piece of parchment off a nearby table. "I could send it by the usual currier, but the Crebain haven't arrived yet. It is nothing urgent, but tell Mehdal to respond as promptly as he can. I need him and his men to be maneuverable and flexible in their movements. There is no telling were or when I will need them. Now go. Get out of the city as soon as possible, and try not to attract any attention."

Radorn bowed again, respectfully, and left.

**---o—oOo—o---**

"However, Captain, if we are to stay, you must promise me that you will make a rapid recovery, and that you will tell us to leave as soon as you become tired." Although his words were partly teasing, Thengel's face was earnest.

Thorongil's haggard face brightened slightly with a small smile. "I'm not sure how much control I have over the speed of my recovery, but I will do my best on both accounts."

"Good, then it is agreed." Morwen came closer to the bed, Théoden peering up at her side. "Théoden and I won't stay long, but I wished to see how you were…and give these to you." She set the "evidence" down on the table next to the bed.

The smile on Thorongil's face was eclipsed by a singular expression of mingled cynicism and weariness. "Then none of this will be held against me?"

"Of course not," Thengel exclaimed. "No one in their right mind would take any of it seriously."

Morwen agreed readily. "We have much to thank you for, Captain. While my husband was away you were nothing but honorable, and true to your word in protecting me."

Thorongil shook his head in denial, laughing bitterly. "And a good job I did of the latter."

"But you _did_," Morwen insisted emphatically. "As long as you were physically capable, you were at my side. After you were thrown in prison you didn't have much _choice_ in the matter. You are a good and loyal soldier of Rohan, and an honorable man." She shook her head ruefully. "And you paid the price for it." She looked up apologetically. "Now I fear all I can do to make restitution is order a new lock put on your desk."

"_That_, my Lady, would be wonderful."

Morwen smiled and took Théoden's hand. "Then it will be done."

Thorongil stopped her before she'd reached the door. "One more thing before you go, my Lady…" He turned his gaze on Théoden, as he reached for the glittering chain of office draped neatly across the pile on the table. "This, I believe, does not belong to me."

"Yes it does!" Théoden protested. "I gave it to you, for your birthday."

Thorongil looked into those large brown eyes, shining up at him with so much pride in the present he'd given, and was at a loss for words. This was a gift the Prince should not have given him. He was too young understand its value or significance. But how was he to say no? "Théoden, this is…"

Théoden, reading the expression on his face and taking it for disappointment, interrupted dolefully, "Then…you don't like it? I know you said adults don't usually get presents, but I thought…"

"Oh, no, Théoden," Thorongil hastily interjected. "It's beautiful, and I am very grateful for it—"

"—And will be very glad to take it into safe-keeping." Morwen, after receiving a confirming glance from Thengel, spoke authoritatively. She pressed the jewel-laden chain towards him, and lowered her voice to nearly a whisper. "Thank you, Captain, for understanding and offering it back, but a certain son of mine hasn't exactly learned to appreciate just how irreplaceable certain heirlooms are just yet. It may be as well if you were to keep this present for the time being. We will know where to find it, when the time is come for its use."

Thorongil met the Queen's eyes, and nodded his gratitude, both for the simple show of trust, and for the even greater trust it implied. His honor was still intact, his name un-tainted, even if his pride was somewhat in ruins.

The Queen left with Théoden, leaving the two men alone.

Thengel struggled for words to say. He knew anything he could say, any apology he could make, would be a huge understatement. "Thorongil…I can't quite express..."

"Please, do not try, your Majesty. You could not have known."

From his tone, Thengel could tell he truly didn't want to hear an apology, but that left him at an awkward place again.

Thorongil didn't share his awkwardness. He nodded towards the stack of papers on the table. "I suppose an explanation of those would still be in order."

"You suppose wrongly," Thengel replied adamantly. "Morwen has already told me, in detail, what transpired while I was gone. I have all the explanation I need. Captain, must you insist on putting yourself through more pain because of all this?"

"No, my Lord, it wouldn't cause me pain, not to recount it privately to you—just to set the records straight on all accounts."

Thengel shook his head helplessly. "I do not need to have it explained, but if you are determined…"

"Thank you, Sire." He'd seen the look of curiosity on Thengel's face regarding the letters, and although he knew it wasn't necessary he felt, now that they'd been read aloud the entire court, it could do no more damage to explain some of it to Thengel. Not the whole story—that he could tell to very few indeed—but the facts regarding the incriminating parts of the "evidence". He started with the easiest, explaining Halbarad's letter, then the letters written in elvish—he'd met many of the fair race in his travels—and, finally, the letter from Arwen, and the accompanying tokens of her affection.

Thengel stopped him before he was half-way through his clumsy description of her, smiling in amused understanding. "The woman who wrote the letter is not my wife. I think that is all I need to know." He rose. "And now, I think I had better leave before Naylor realizes how long I've kept you talking. Focus on recovering, Captain. You didn't do it properly last time, and now you have twice as much work to do."

Thorongil smiled wryly. "I shall try to get it all done this time, my Lord."

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**To be continued…**

**Reviews are NOT necessary to life. They aren't even necessary to writing. But they sure help a lot. :-)**


	18. Away From Danger

_**See first chapter for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes.**_

**A/N: -fans self- Oye. It's hot. And our air-conditioner's broken. -sobs pathetically- My brain freezes (erm…melts into a puddle would be more appropriate, maybe) when it gets this hot out. So, I've done my best to correct things as directed by my dear beta…but, as stated above, I'm not at my best thinking capacity. -dies from teh heat-**

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**Chapter 18: Away From Danger**

Thengel straightened from where he'd been hunched over his desk. He'd been agonizing over the sheet of parchment for hours, and even now he wasn't completely satisfied with what he'd written. His confusion mounted every time he re-read the latest letter he'd received from Gondor.

Ecthelion was a tactful, wise man, but he was always very straight-forward in their correspondence. Or, at least he _had_ been. Over the last year or so, he'd noticed a change. Subtle, at first, but a couple months ago he'd really began to notice a difference. Some of his letters seemed to be written in a much cooler tone of voice than before. A few lines were so formal and cold, Thengel was almost led to think he'd offended him in some way without realizing it. But then the next letter would sound more normal again, and his fears would begin to fade, until they were reawakened by another foreign-sounding line in another letter.

The cycle continued thus, with Thengel hardly knowing how to respond at times. This most recent message was proving to be the most puzzling of all, not because of the usual problem, but because this time it rang so true. He could almost hear Ecthelion saying the words. While immensely relieved on one hand, on the other he was more bewildered than ever.

Half the letter was veiled questions—questions he'd thought about putting to Ecthelion many times. Had he done something offensive? Was everything alright with his family, and with his home? Ecthelion obviously thought _he _was somehow under pressure, or possibly angry with him. And all this time Thengel had been wondering the very same thing about Ecthelion. He couldn't understand it. How could they be miscommunicating so badly?

With a heavy sigh, he dipped his quill into the inkbottle, and signed his name to his own missive, full of earnest replies, and a few questions of his own.

**---o—oOo—o---**

"Is something troubling you, my Lord?"

Thengel was about to shake his head, but stopped himself. Perhaps Thorongil might have some fresh insight. It was worth a try. "Yes, as a matter of fact, something has been bothering me."

Thorongil strode attentively at his side, and clasped his hands behind his back. Save for some lingering soreness from his side wound, he had been pronounced fully healed by Naylor, after several weeks of being bed-ridden. The process had been mutually miserable for both patient and healer, and all were glad the captain was back on his feet.

Although still frustrated in his attempts to determine the man responsible for Thorongil's brutal "questioning," saying Thengel was relieved to have Thorongil by his side again would have been an understatement. For one thing, it seemed a hopeful precursor to normalcy. Not that he could think of things being normal yet, not with the words of Ecthelion's last letter still fresh in his mind. He hadn't sent his response yet, and felt in need of a second opinion before he did so.

"I've been thinking about our relations with Gondor."

"Rohan's relations with Gondor, my Lord?" Thorongil queried, with obvious surprise. "We are allies, and have been so for centuries. Surely there is no reason to worry about there being some problem."

"I hope not."

"Then…there _is_ some reason in particular that you do worry about it?"

"Yes. There is something in particular, though it may not threaten any real hostilities between our countries, for it is of a more personal nature. I speak specifically about my friendship with the Steward."

Thorongil's surprise went up another notch. "But I thought you and Lord Ecthelion were on the best of terms."'

"We are. And, although our separate duties to our kingdoms often keep us from seeing each other often, we have corresponded ever since I left Gondor. We _are _friends, and have been so for a long time, that is why his behavior worries me so much. I thought I knew him, but lately in his letters, he sounds like a different man. I almost feel as if I've somehow made him angry with me, though how I cannot think… However, I just received his most recent letter, and it is confusing in a different way. In it, he asked _me_ what is wrong, as if _I_ were the one acting strangely."

Thorongil absorbed the information with interest, and concern.

"For a long time I thought I might be imagining it all, but not anymore. The more I think about it, the more I feel the need to see him face-to-face. There's only so much one can tell from a piece of paper—I feel blind." Thengel clutched the piece of parchment in his had agitatedly.

"Perhaps you should go see him face-to-face," Thorongil stated quietly.

"Do you think I dare?"

"Dare? With all due respect, Sire, I don't think you dare _not _to. Something feels wrong about all this, but even if it's only a small misunderstanding it would be better have it cleared up now, rather than turn into something worse later on."

Thengel tried not to sound too eager. The prospect of actually seeing Ecthelion, even under the somewhat strained circumstances, was exciting. But could he really afford to leave just now? He'd only been home a couple of weeks, after all.

Thorongil saw the struggle on Thengel's face, as it brightened, and then became troubled with indecision. "You would, of course, have some time yet. A messenger could be sent to Ecthelion, and arrangements would need to be made… Perhaps some agreement could be made to meet half-way between Edoras and Minas Tirith."

Thengel felt his hope mount again. It just might work. Seeing Ecthelion again, and being able to put any questions _directly_ to him… He gave a firm nod. "Yes. I will send a messenger." Already, he mind began to work on the details, and he continued voicing his thoughts aloud. "It'll need to be a trustworthy messenger indeed. Someone with tact, and enough diplomacy to discuss this with Ecthelion…"

"Anborn?" Thorongil suggested.

"No, I do not think I should send him yet. Eru knows he's had enough practice with diplomacy, and is patient to fault. But I fear Lord Mannalic has kept him busy most of the year thus far, and I'd feel guilty asking him for more so soon."

"Silfren?"

"Silfren would be perfect—were he ten years younger." Thengel smiled. "I don't think he would appreciate another journey just yet. At the end of a long trip on horseback, he was hardly in a mood for polite discussion."

"What about Captain Heolstor?" Thorongil hesitated to say it, considering his own biased feelings towards the other captain. However, Heolstor _was_ a good soldier, and a logical option as a messenger in every way. Other than his own suspicions, that was. But everything was chaos right now, with no one certain of who they could trust anymore. Thengel himself looked in need of some time to recover. Thengel had made the difficult and burdensome decision to have Eothald put in the dungeon for time being, first of all for his own safety, considering all the people lined up eagerly to voluntarily execute him, and secondly because he wasn't sure what _else_ to do with him. It was all pending further investigation right now. Unfortunately, Eothald was the chief witness, suspected conspirator, and criminal all wrapped up into one—and he wasn't proving to be cooperative.

Thengel was silent for a moment. "I do not know… He is a fine soldier, but how he would do as an ambassador, I cannot say."

"I would be able to undergo the journey, my Lord."

Thorongil make the offer sound so matter of fact that for a full ten seconds Thengel seriously considered the proposal. When the words finally penetrated, he looked up sharply. "Don't be ridiculous, Captain. I'm not sending you."

"Then… I don't meet the requirements?"

"Now you _are_ being ridiculous. I couldn't think of anyone more suited then you for this job, you meet all the requirements. All, except in one _small_ matter."

"Which is?"

"Just the minor problem of you being in absolutely no condition to go anywhere. Gods, Thorongil, you're only just recovering!"

"With all due respect, Sire, I've already been pronounced fully recovered…"

"With all due respect, _Captain_, you are _still_ not undertaking this mission. Naylor would never permit it."

"Naylor," Thorongil groaned. "That is just it, my Lord. If I do not get away from him and Feorh soon I swear by all the Valar I shall go utterly raving mad. She seems to have taken it upon herself to act as a spy for him. They won't let me leave Meduseld, much less mount my horse—if you do not pity me, then pity my horse. Seron can have a nasty temper, and if he doesn't get some exercise soon—"

"Enough, enough... I hear you, Captain, and I do pity you, _and_ Seron. It would seem that both of us have rather desperate needs, and as you have solved mine, I suppose it is only fair I grant you yours. But, I have one condition."

Thorongil visibly flinched. Those simple, trivial, little "conditions" got you every time. But the sentence that Thengel passed wasn't as bad as he'd dreaded it would be.

"Lieutenant Araedhelm will come with you."

"I'm sure he will be as glad as I to get some fresh air." Thorongil nodded his thanks.

Thengel watched Thorongil bow, and then stride off down the hall, his step light and full of exuberance. He couldn't help but smile. Thorongil's mind was clearly already ten steps ahead, planning the trip. He felt a little apprehensive over his decision. After all, Thorongil had an uncanny ability to get into catastrophic situations. However, he had to consider other things, like Thorongil's unconquerable desire to be doing things, and going places.

This unassuming wanderer from the North had entered his services unceremoniously, but with a surprising air of purposefulness, as if he'd woken up one morning and simply decided that today he would become a soldier of Rohan. But might he not just as unceremoniously resort back to his nomadic existence, and fade back into the wilds, becoming a wanderer again? Every time that glint of restlessness appeared in Thorongil's eyes, Thengel found himself relenting to nearly any request to give him something to do, in the hope it might satisfy his cravings for a while. Deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time, but he would keep that eventually at bay as long as it was possible.

**---o—oOo—o---**

Araedhelm yawned, and tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. Thorongil, on the other hand, sat tall in his saddle, the very image of vivacity and energy.

"Captain, would you mind answering a question?"

"Not at all."

"Why in the name of all the gods did we have to get up at this hour?"

Thorongil chuckled. "You're getting too soft, Lieutenant. Whatever happened to your sense of adventure?"

"Adventure doesn't happen at this time in the morning: everyone's still _sleeping_."

"Ah, well, so much the better. I suppose we can't run into much trouble then, either. And it's a beautiful day to be traveling."

Araedhelm stared at him blearily, as if he'd just told him he was going to marry a dwarf maiden. "There's nothing to be quite that cheerful about…. And how do you know it's going to be beautiful day? It's still dark out."

Thorongil threw head back and laughed. "Dark out? Open your eyes, Lieutenant, while you've been dozing the sun's come up, and it _is_ turning out be a very beautiful day."

Araedhelm's only response was an unenthused grunt.

As the day progressed Araedhelm did begin to wake up, although it was halfway through the morning before he was fully functional. They stopped for their mid-day meal, and with food in his stomach again he almost felt as cheerful as his captain looked. Thorongil had eaten sparingly, hardly even checking to make sure he was putting _food_ into his mouth, instead using the break to focusing on map he'd spread out before him.

Araedhelm squatted down beside him. "Where are we?"

Thorongil tapped his finger on the map to indicate their position. "Approximately here. If we rode until after dusk we could actually make it close to the Firien woods…"

"But—"

Thorongil halted Araedhelm's words of disapproval, correcting himself. "_But_ Thengel-King ordered me, specifically, not to push too hard, so we _will_ be stopping before supper."

Araedhelm nodded his approval. "That's better."

They did stop before the darkness set in. However, Thorongil insisted on riding hard, with few breaks, right up until the sun began to disappear behind the treetops, and Araedhelm's scowl forced him to halt.

The next morning, Thorongil allowed his lieutenant an extra hour's sleep, and thus Araedhelm arose feeling and acting a bit more human than the day before. They continued down the Great West Road and, to Thorongil's satisfaction, crossed from the Eastfold into Anórien before noon. At lunch, their horses drank their fill of fresh water from the Mering Stream, and they refilled their flasks.

As they remounted, Araedhelm discreetly watched his captain, wary for any signs that his recklessness might be catching up with his only recently recovered health. He was glad to be proven wrong in his suspicions, for Thorongil mounted his horse as smoothly as he'd descended, showing no signs of fatigue or stiffness. More than that, he was in a more stubbornly cheerful mood than Araedhelm had seen him in for many weeks. Right now, if the sly smirk on his face was any indication, his captain's cheerfulness was leaning more towards mischievousness than mere happiness. The glint in those very alert silver eyes instantly put him on guard.

"We've made some good ground already," Araedhelm commented.

"Aye, we have."

"Then, we _could_ afford to go a little more slowly."

"The King only said not to 'tire' ourselves—I'm not tired, are you?"

The barb was only a small insult to his manliness, and Araedhelm was determined not to be goaded on or, worse, to encourage him. "No, I am _not_ tired."

"Then you wouldn't mind a small race?"

"Of course I wouldn't, but—"

"Then you _will_ race me?"

"No!"

Thorongil slowly raised an eyebrow, and this time the challenge could not be ignored.

"What kind of a race do you have in mind?"

Thorongil grinned. "I've figured out a shortcut."

Araedhelm guffawed. "A shortcut to _where_? This road _is_ the shortcut."

"Just through the Firien Woods. I'll be on the other side of them in half the time it'll take you on the road."

"Oh really?"

"I'll take that as a yes, then."

Thorongil flashed him another grin, and, before Araedhelm could even regret having risen to the challenge, he'd spurred his horse off the road. With a sigh of resignation, Araedhelm urged his own mount down the road. The horse's hooves pounded deafeningly on the path.

He might have cried out when the heavy weight rammed into him, knocking him from his horse. As it was, when he collided with ground the wind was completely knocked out of him, leaving him dazed. While his brain groped for oxygen, desperately trying to make his lungs work again, his vision blacked out. He gasped reflexively, and color and sight re-entered his world. Next, pain crashed over him, and realized his body had fallen in an awkward position, with his left arm twisted beneath him. He'd broken enough limbs to recognize the feeling. Groaning, he began to push himself upwards with his good arm. Cold metal pressed to his throat and a gruff voice stopped him.

"That's it, hold still unless you want your throat slit."

Without moving his head, Araedhelm watched his captor out of the corner of his eyes. His very ugly, dirty, and hugely-smiling captor, as it turned out. "What do you want?"

"Guess."

_Wonderful: let's play guessing games while trying not to pass out. Just what I had in mind. _The coolness of the sword against his throat was enough to remind him to keep his sarcastic thoughts to himself. He shifted as much as he dared, supporting as much of us weight as he could with his knees in order to give his aching right arm a break.

"I _told_ you to hold still."

Araedhelm obeyed.

"Enough, Hodosh. Let him to his feet."

Araedhelm rose gratefully, cradling his broken arm to his chest. He was confronted with a new, and more daunting sight. Apparently, he had more than one captor. A tall, brown-haired man with a taut face and commanding presence strode from the forest, and behind him came eight more men.

"Gadog, get over there and help Hodosh. Take his sword, search him for other weapons, and then bring him off the road. Gardeg, get his horse." The brown-haired man ordered his companions, and, amazingly, all four of the rough-looking men obeyed without complaint, albeit with a few resentful glances.

Flanked on either side by Gadog and Hodosh, Araedhelm had little choice but to obey and be led off the road into the woods. They marched after the brown-haired man until he came to a halt.

"This is far enough." The leader handed Hodosh a length of rope. "Tie him to that tree."

His orders were once again obeyed. The brown-haired man drew closer, until they were face-to-face. Although he had no clue what was going on, who these men were, or what they wanted with him, Araedhelm met his scrutiny unflinchingly.

"My men haven't found it on you, so I assume it's with your mount?"

Araedhelm stared in open confusion. "What?"

"Don't play the fool. You're rumored to be a man of high intelligence. Do the intelligent thing, and just tell me where it is." The man wasn't threatening, he simply stated things with a weary air. "I don't have time to give you a second chance. Tell me now, or I'll have to use all the means in my power to convince you otherwise. Where is the letter?"

"What letter?"

"Tell me now, Captain Thorongil, and it will spare us both pain."

Araedhelm couldn't speak for surprise. So that was it, they actually though _he_ was Thorongil? And as for a letter… He hadn't been given specifics, but he knew Thorongil was traveling to Minas Tirith with a message for Ecthelion, verbal or otherwise he didn't know. Whatever the contents of the message, he saw now that it must have been important. Important enough for them to kill the bearer: Thorongil. Giddy relief swept over him as he realized how close his captain had come to being captured. If he hadn't agreed to the race, then at this very instant both of them would have been captured. A sharp blow against his face caused him to reawake to the possibility of his own impending demise.

"The moment you tell me, _I_ will tell my men to stop. If you don't tell me, you'll leave me no choice but to continue, until you're dead if needs be. Consider carefully."

Araedhelm didn't reply. The back of his head whacked painfully against the tree.

"Very well. You are rumored to be a stubborn man, as well as intelligent. I had hoped you would have more sense than this. Tell me, what was the message?"

For a second time the wind was knocked from his lungs, this time by a fist. Araedhelm curled around his aching chest as much as his bonds permitted him. The seriousness of his situation began to sink in. To these men he _was _Thorongil—and he was determined never to tell them he wasn't.

A well-aimed punch to his broken arm put to the test his new resolution not to make a noise. If he cried out, he would only be directing his captain to their position. Sooner or later, when he didn't show up, he knew Thorongil would come looking for him. He feared it. He knew first-hand of his captain's fighting skill, but ten men… The odds weren't good.

A dagger entered his field of vision, its tip held dangerously close to his eye.

"Go on, straw-head, tell us." A rough voice taunted, sounding very much as if its owner hoped he wouldn't.

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**To be continued…**

**If I'm still alive by the time the repair guys come and revive our AC, I will very gratefully read any reviews sent. If I'm not alive…um, I guess Cami could read them at my funeral? Say nice things. Oh, and virtual ice cream is also appreciated... -g- Apparently heat makes me a bit strange(r) as well. :-P **


	19. Don't Kill the Messenger

**A/N: Ahh, so man things to apologize for, so little time… I'm so sorry (and bewildered) that I forgot to say I was leaving on vacation! I kept meaning to, but when I posted the last chapter I totally forgot. Still, I was planning on updating sooner than this (since the vacation was only seven days). And then my dear beta's laptop was having difficulties, so she couldn't edit the chapter, and then yesterday I got this horrible bookworm's sunburn at a picnic… (Nope, no such thing as a tan for me and my pale skin.) Bleh. I was debating even posting today, since I'm pretty exhausted (I need a vacation!), but I feel guilty enough as is. So I'm posting at last. **

**I hope I got back to everyone on their reviews, though the process was rather sporadic due to having very little internet time. Sorry if I missed you, but I **_**really**_** appreciated the reviews. :-) **

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**Chapter 19: Don't Kill the Messenger**

Thorongil crouched low over Seron's mane, both for the sake of speed, and to avoid hitting any branches.

Although he'd challenged Araedhelm on the spur of the moment, and in high confidence, he wasn't entirely sure just how _short_ his shortcut was. It might give him a couple minutes' head start, for to the right, where the road was, the land took a turn for the steeper, sloping up a hill. His chosen path around that obstacle was flat, even a little _down_hill. Those facts had been the inspiration for his only half-formulated plan, and as he turned off the road he could see he just might actually have been right. But he did face a hindrance of his own: the trees. Fortunately, Seron was doing well avoiding them, and even seemed to take some pleasure in the challenge they presented.

He rode until the woods became less dense, and he began to catch glimpses of the Anórien plains through the branches of the trees. Swerving to the right, he merged with the road again, and pulled his horse to a halt once he'd reached the borders of the forest. There was no sign of Araedhelm, so he stretched in the saddle, and waited. He waited five minutes. He waited ten minutes. He turned to look behind. No dust billows heralded the expected approach of his lieutenant. From his calculations, he'd guessed his route would give him a minute or two, but certainly not a quarter of an hour.

"Come on, Seron, let us see what has become of him."

Nothingappeared to have become of Araedhelm. The road was bewilderingly, inexplicably, worryingly empty. By the time he'd retraced his steps all the way back to where they'd begun the race, with still no sign of Araedhelm, his anxiety was growing in earnest. Hiding was _not_ among Araedhelm's usual repertoire of practical jokes, and, barring that possibility, he had very few reassuring explanations to offer himself.

Doubling back again, he reined in Seron and leaned sideways in the saddle, squinting down at the tracks Araedhelm had left. It wasn't hard to read, for the signs were fresh and clear, and none had come this way recently besides them. Clearly, Araedhelm had taken off at gallop. He'd continued and… Thorongil stopped. Araedhelm's horse might have galloped on, but there were signs that his master had _not_.

Thorongil dismounted in haste, kneeling in the dust to get a better look. What he found filled him with apprehension. Following the trail clearly written out for him, he took Seron's bridle and strode to the edge of the woods.

"Greetings, soldier of Rohan."

He turned his head sharply in surprise.

The man looming above him atop a horse looked mildly concerned. "Forgive me if I startled you."

Thorongil's gaze roamed over the man's blue livery—with the White Tree emblazoned in silver upon it—and over his three companions behind him, also mounted and wearing Gondor's emblem. Over the years, the tracking skills his elven brothers had thought him had improved with use and experience. However, his ability to stay alert to what was going on around him appeared to be more lacking than he'd realized. He bereted himself for allowing his worry to make him lose track of what was immediately around him. The man who'd addressed him was still looking at him bemusement, so he hastened to answer his last question. "You did startle me a somewhat, but that would be my own fault for not having paid more attention to my surroundings."

The Gondorian's demeanor looked less openly concerned, but he still ventured cautiously, "Is anything wrong? Are you in need of provisions—or perhaps you have lost your way?"

Thorongil chuckled good-naturedly at his awkwardly presented, but obviously well-meant, offer. "No, no, have no fear on that account. I've not gone mad in the heat from lack of water."

"I did not mean to imply that…"

Thorongil shook his head, halt the apology. "In any case, I suppose I can't really blame anyone for mistaking me for a mad man, at the moment." While he spoke, his eyes were drawn again to the tracks at his feet, his mind recommencing to think up new, and unpleasant, solutions as to what had happened to Araedhelm.

"Are you looking for someone?"

"Yes, my companion is missing, and the signs I have found here are not promising. I fear he has been ambushed."

"Ambushed, you say?" the man said, his voice dry and weary-sounding. "Well, then, we may have a common purpose to pursue. My men and I have spent the morning chasing down a group of robbers said to be in this area. There have been some minor disturbances on this road, reported to have been caused by these men. Our causes may be the same. If you are a tracker, then perhaps you might lead the way?"

Thorongil nodded. "I would be most grateful for your help, and glad to assist you in any way I can."

He mounted Seron, and followed the trail, clearly written out for his practiced eyes to see. After he'd gone on for a few minutes, he didn't need to look at the ground for guidance—although there was enough disturbance of the underbrush to easily go on. Voices led him on. Angry voices. Being in front, Thorongil was the first to get a view of the scene. All calmness and clear-headedness instantly tried to flee in favor of burning anger, but he retained enough self-control to wait until the Gondorians had also seen what he had.

He whispered fiercely to their leader, "We must attack _now_." To his relief, the man did not begin to lecture him on the merits of patience, but instead nodded curtly in agreement and motioned to his men.

**---o—oOo—o---**

Araedhelm tried to calm his racing heart. There wasn't anything he _could_ do except try to remain calm. As impossible as that seemed, he didn't want to let these men see him hesitate. Unfortunately, just by telling these men that he was Thorongil, he didn't automatically acquire his captain's uncanny ability to remain impervious and controlled in panic-worthy situations.

As the dagger wavered precariously close to his eye, it grew more difficult to keep his composure at the prospect of being blinded any second. With excruciating slowness, the point of the blade moved away from his eye. Instead, it traced a pattern down the side of his face, drawing a faint but stinging line from temple to jaw.

The leader of the group, the man who'd questioned him in the beginning, never left his position in front of Araedhelm. He stood a little way off, arms crossed and one hand rubbing his beard thoughtfully. He didn't appear to take any pleasure in his captive's pain, but neither did it appear to cause him any emotion of the opposite sort. His gaze followed the proceedings not quite dispassionately, but with a hard, brooding attitude. To Araedhelm, it looked like he'd watched scenes of this sort before—perhaps many times, judging by the jaded look lurking behind his eyes.

"Captain Thorongil, _please_. Heroics won't get you anywhere. I have my orders. If at all possible, I am to spare your life and bring you to see my commander. However, if you will not relent, then neither can I."

Araedhelm grit his teeth, grinding them tightly closed against the pain, as the tip of the dagger moves away from his eye and bit into his shoulder. He didn't look at any of them, but past his inquisitioner, into the woods…where a familiar face was just appearing. Dread turned to amazement as his captain entered the small clearing not alone, but with four other mounted soldiers behind him.

The onslaught was fast and furious. He watched dazedly as his captain took out two Dunlendings in quick succession, and his four unknown companions each rode down another one. Then his view was blocked as Thorongil knelt in front of him and began cutting the ropes that held him to the tree. He managed to stay upright when he was released from his bonds, but he was grateful for the shoulder his captain offered him to lean on. Thorongil lowered him into a sitting position, and he leaned his head back against the tree. He could hear the sound of hooves galloping away from them, and turned questioning eyes on Thorongil.

"They are chasing down the ones that ran away."

"Who _are_ 'they'?"

"Soldiers of Gondor, a border patrol I believe…" Thorongil shook his head dismissively, and reached out to gingerly touch Araedhelm broken arm, which hung limply at his side. "But that doesn't matter right now. Lieutenant, _hold_ _still_."

Araedhelm reflexively began to jerk away as Thorongil began to rip open his shirtsleeve and examine his arm. Using the old trick, he began a conversation to distract himself. "They were Dunlendings—or at least most of them were."

"Most? I didn't see any but Dunlendings."

"He must have seen the fight was futile and fled immediately, then," Araedhelm mused grimly.

"Who?"

"Their leader. He, at least, looked like he could be Rohirrim, or Gondorian, and had more brains than the whole lot of them put together."

Thorongil looked up from where he was rummaging through his pack. "Since when have Wild Men let a man of Rohan—or a man of any other race—order them around?"

"Since now, apparently. I've never seen such a submissive group of Dunlendings in my life."

Thorongil considered the information for a moment. "And what did they want with you?"

"They didn't want anything with me, Captain. They thought _I_ was _you_."

Thorongil wiped some of the blood away from Araedhelm's face, his expression dark. "And what did they want with _me_?"

"They wanted the message you carry to Lord Ecthelion."

Before Thorongil could reply to the unexpected revelation, the four Gondorians returned. Their leader dismounted directly in front of them, looking with concern at Araedhelm, and questioningly at Thorongil.

"How is he?"

Thorongil scanned Araedhelm critically. "His arm's broken, and he's lost some blood…"

"But not my hearing—I am sitting right _here_," Araedhelm interrupted, feeling irrationally grouchy in the wake of his unexpected release, and even more so at being the temporary center of attention. "I broke arm, not my head, and I've not lost more than a couple of drops of blood."

The Gondorian smiled good-humoredly. "Your pardon. I've not even introduced myself. I am Lieutenant Ferin."

Araedhelm looked a little sheepish over his small outburst, especially spoken as it was in front of a stranger—to whom he was, coincidentally, indebted. Thorongil noted that his face was beginning to look pale and strained, so he answered for them both. "This is Lieutenant Araedhelm, and I am Captain Thorongil."

Ferin seemed to catch himself just short of stammering. "You are Captain _Thorongil_?"

Thorongil didn't miss the shining admiration in the younger man's eyes, and felt intensely undeserving of that kind of awe. He hadn't even stopped to consider that he would even be widely known of in Gondor, but apparently Ferin had been hearing something of him. Such was the nature of rumors exaggerated. He only nodded, looking away, and absently recommencing to tend his resistant lieutenant as best as he could. When, after a moment's awkward pause, he looked back up, and over Ferin's shoulder, he could see the other soldiers securing three cursing Wild Men to trees. "Are those all the Dunelings, then?"

The amazement faded from Ferin's eyes, but his demeanor remained attentively respectful. "I think so, but I can't be certain…"

"I wish I could tell you how many there were," Araedhelm said, regretfully. "But I wasn't exactly counting. What I can tell you is that their leader escaped."

"Their leader?"

"Aye," Thorongil rummaged through his satchel for some herbs. "The man who led them was not Dunlending, as the rest were."

It was easy to gauge Ferin's reactions. Tan, and weathered, with a scar running from temple to ear on one side, the light-haired Gondorian's his face was not that of a green soldier, but the unstudiedness of his expressions seemed contradictory to everything else about him. Thorongil watched with a small smile hovering on his lips, as Ferin mentally went over all the questions his statement stirred up, and tried to answer them. It was obvious his self-interrogation was getting him nowhere.

"I suppose you'd like to know why they were torturing my Lieutenant?"

Ferin nodded.

"Well to begin with, they didn't think it was him they'd captured. They thought he was me."

"And what would Dunlendings, and this other…man, want with you?"

Thorongil chose his words carefully, deciding his best course of action would be to entrust Ferin with the knowledge of his mission, but not wanting to say more than was necessary. "Araedhelm tells me they want the message I carry for Lord Ecthelion."

"You carry a message for the Steward? From King Thengel?"

"Yes."

"It must be important, then, if he sent you."

"It is." Thorongil exchanged glances with Araedhelm, then ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "But important enough for these men to hunt us down, and, if necessary, kill for it? I don't know… I don't see what there could be in it for a couple of Dunlendings, and their leader, whoever he is." In truth, a possibility _was_ edging its way into his conscious, but he didn't feel comfortable going into details about the letter with anyone less than Ecthelion himself. He had to talk to the Steward as soon as possible. "We must get to Minas Tirith as soon as possible."

"Yes… Yes, of course," Ferin agreed. "And my men and I shall escort you there, as soon as your companion is able to travel."

Araedhelm muttered something about being ready to travel immediately, and tried to rise, but Thorongil ignored him, save to force him to remain seated. "Thank you for the offer, but I wouldn't take you from your duty."

"Oh—I do not think that we need worry about that. Our patrol is nearly finished. A new contingent should be heading this way tomorrow, and they can finish scouring these woods for any more of the men who escaped. We should bring the three we captured back for questioning, in any case."

Thorongil slowly inclined his head. "Then you have our gratitude."

Satisfied, Ferin rose and returned to his men to oversee the securing of the prisoners.

Despite Araedhelm's continual grousing and loud objecting, Thorongil finished tending him, and then insisted on his taking a few pain- and fever-reducing herbs. A few moments later, before he even had time to grow suspicious over his sudden drowsiness, Araedhelm—literally—went down like a log. After shifting him into a more comfortable position than the one he'd slumped into, Thorongil stood to stretch his legs, his smile of self-satisfaction bordering on a smirk. Araedhelm would be more irritable to deal with than the Dunlendings when he awoke, but they would have peace for the night, at least.

**---o—oOo—o---**

Mehdal held back his rage as only he knew how. But it was there, boiling beneath the surface: rage, and, even more, impatience. And, he knew, if _he _was angry and impatient, it was nothing in comparison to what Heolstor's wrath would be like when he found out about his failure. Mehdal, however, was not one to quake with uncertainty and fear. He might not be able to go back and change the past, but he was going to fix his error to the best of his ability.

As soon as the fighting had begun, he'd run. A rather cowardly action, he mused, without caring in the slightest. If it was cowardly, it had been ten times more practical than heroics. Besides, heroics didn't count with Dunlendings—they'd as soon cut his throat as thank him for risking his life to save them. Still, he couldn't leave them in the hands of the enemy. He had absolutely no personal attachment to them, but who knew what information the brainless fools might give away for their freedom—or simply for a mug of ale.

He'd yet to meet a Dunlending who even knew what loyalty _was_, much less made practice of the trait. Some of Heolstor's men were the desperate type, mercenaries prepared to kill themselves rather than face torture and execution for their past crimes. Heolstor had taken advantage of that fact, drilling the do-or-die mentality into them until it was almost a religion. Heolstor didn't like loose ends. In truth, Mehdal did have a certain amount of respect for men such as the mercenaries. But Dunlendings, although he was sure their minds could grasp the idea of killing themselves for a cause, he knew none of them would, especially if there was any chance of escape at all. Besides, even if they were, at some point, convinced of the idea, he still couldn't count on them actually _doing_ it when the time came. Those Gondorians would make a great show of _mercy _and _justice, _and those idiots would blame everything on each other and shamelessly back-stab anyone to get away. And, of course, it would be obvious what they were doing, and the Gondorians would continue the questions until they got the real answers, and…

He shook himself, stopping the train of thought. Speculation was futile. He knew Dunlendings, and he knew what had to be done. So, as soon as the Gondorians had given up the chase, he doubled back around and come back to the clearing, staying a discrete distance away. He waited for darkness to fall, and then edged in closer, scouting out the small camp. He spotted what he was searching for, and skirted closer to the right, and to the trees the Dunlendings were tied to.

Next to the fire at the center of the camp, he could see the form of Captain Thorongil. He was lying on his back, chest rising and falling gently as he slept on. Beyond, a sentry was standing guard, Mehdal could hear his boots as paced restlessly. But he was invisible in the shadows, and what he had to do would only take a few seconds. The key was to do it with as little noise as possible. He reached for his dagger.

**---o—oOo—o---**

Araedhelm woke slowly. Much more slowly than was usually his wont. At first he was too groggy to think clearly, but then the dull throbbing of his arm brought the events of the last day back to the surface. Then he remembered _why _he was so groggy. If not by nature, then by practice, he'd always been a morning person, if not quite to the extent that Thorongil was, but drugs often had the unpleasant side-effect of temporarily altering that fact.

Despite his return to conscious thought, he couldn't seem to make himself move. Oblivion felt so warm and comfortable… _No_, the small part of him that clung to his normal non-drugged persona rebuked him. _If you act as if you _needed_ drugging then you'll only prove him right, and give him every reason to do so again, and to ignore any protests you make in the future. _

Fine. He'd get up, if only to glare at Thorongil. Of course, he'd probably fall asleep atop his horse later…

Valiantly battling waves of sleepiness, Araedhelm cracked his eyes open. As soon as he'd registered what it was he was looking at, they snapped open the rest of the way, and he sat up in alarm, careful not to jar his arm. It couldn't be… He stared in horror at the bloody mess a few yards away.

All of the Dunlendings were slumped against the trees they'd been tied to—their throats slit. He whirled, his captain's name on his lips, "Thorongil—"

"Take it easy, Araedhelm." Thorongil sat behind him, one arm resting on his bent knees, the other holding a lit pipe.

Araedhelm calmed at sight of his captain. For a horrible moment, he'd wondered if perhaps he'd slept on in his drug-induced stupor while everyone in the camp was attacked. He saw now that it was still quite early in the morning, the sun just beginning to warm the air, its light still dim. Ferin and his men were all up, packing camp. Two were digging holes in the ground at the edge of camp. All were avoiding looking at the grisly sight of the dead Dunlendings. "What happened?"

Inserting the stem of the pipe between his lips, Thorongil looked at the Dunlendings, shaking his head. "Someone slipped in with a dagger and slit their throats while the sentry wasn't looking." He shook his head. "It wasn't noticed until the sun rose."

"Yes, but why—and who?" The shock had gone far towards bringing Araedhelm fully awake, and although his mind was already beginning to supply answers, Araedhelm found himself automatically asking the questions aloud.

Thorongil's voice was hardly more than a contemplative murmur, as if he were talking to himself more than Araedhelm. "There's only one obvious answer as to who would do this. It must have been the man who led them. As to why… Apparently they had information worth killing them to keep secret. That's the only answer I can think of."

"But if they were on the same side…"

"Dunlendings, taking sides?" Thorongil raised an eyebrow. "No, I think not. They were on there _own_ side. They might do someone else's dirty work for a while, but how far do you think their loyalties run? Apparently, this man didn't place any trust in them at all. We should have questioned them last night." Thorongil frowned with stern disapproval. A disapproval Araedhelm knew was aimed primarily at himself.

"I have a feeling that's exactly what Lieutenant Ferin is saying to himself at this moment." Araedhelm nodded towards where the young Gondorian was pacing distractedly back and forth.

"Aye, but he appears to be taking it well," Thorongil observed.

"'Taking it well'?" Araedhelm exclaimed, more than a little incredulous. "He looks about ready to tear his hair out."

"Yes, but he _isn't_. He's planning his next move," Thorongil stated with approval.

Araedhelm watched a moment longer. Thorongil was right. Despite his agitated pacing, Ferin's face was full of purpose, his brows forming a permanent-looking frown of thoughtfulness. Araedhelm's observation was interrupted by a light touch on his arm.

"Don't say it," Thorongil ordered calmly, as he went about checking Araedhelm's various injuries, starting with his arm. "I know all about patients who say they are 'fine', even while they are about as far away from being 'fine' as possible."

"And how do you know I'm not the first patient you've come across who _is_ actually fine?" Araedhelm grumbled. The situation seemed slightly ludicrous to him, and Thorongil's disapproval rather hypocritical, considering all the times this situation had played out with the captain on the other end, endlessly spouting "I'm fine"s, and expecting _him_ to believe it.

Thorongil probably knew he was being a hypocrite, but apparently he was choosing to ignore the fact. He carefully touched the angry-looking cut on Araedhelm's face as he examined it, and said unashamedly, "Because, over the years, I've learned that 'I'm fine' is almost always a precursor to passing out, fatigue, dizziness, nausea—or something along those lines. With my brothers, I've almost come to rely upon it as one of the main symptoms that something _is_ seriously wrong."

"Just because your brothers were in denial, doesn't mean I am. I've had enough experience to know when I'm hurt, and when I'm _fine."_

"Experience has nothing to do with it, but stubbornness _does_."

Araedhelm endured Thorongil's ministrations after that, his only concession to his impatience an occasional dark glare aimed at the captain. Thorongil finally sat back.

"There, are you satisfied?"

Thorongil rubbed his neck and stretched his back. "For now."

Araedhelm narrowed his eyes. "And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?"

Thorongil rose, lifting his pack. "It means, you're not nearly 'fine', but you should be able to make it to Minas Tirith if you take it easy." He looked more sternly at Araedhelm. "Remember what you were just saying the other day, about the King's _order _to take our time?"

"Yes, but that was before a band of Dunlendings attacked us and tried to force the message from me—or, rather, _you_." Araedhelm retorted. "I think yesterday's events _might_ call for a little haste." If he was honest with himself, he felt like one gigantic bruise, and he didn't even want to think about how painful riding was going to be. However, he _didn't_ feel like being honest with himself, and he didn't want to slow things down just on account of a few scrapes and bruises and a broken arm.

Thorongil sighed heavily. "We will get the message to Minas Tirith as soon as possible, but if we have extra protection against another assault haste may not be so necessary."

"Do we know we have that extra protection?" Araedhelm gestured towards Ferin. "Perhaps with one or more of the men still missing, and the prisoners now dead, they won't be able to escort us."

"We do. Lieutenant Ferin has offered the protection of him and his men. I will go speak with him, find out when we leave. Stay here, Lieutenant, conserve your strength. We still have much of our journey before us."

**---o—oOo—o---**

Tall statues of the kings of old overlooked their progress down the marble hall leading to the throne. Normally, Thorongil might have let his eyes roam over those statues, and have allowed his mind to wander, but now his worry kept him focused.

Lieutenant Ferin led him, and Araedhelm at his side, towards the dais in the center of the room. In the Steward's chair, Ecthelion sat, head bent in thought. But he had been listening to their approach, and looked up as they bowed respectfully to him. Thorongil and Araedhelm held back slightly, allowing Ferin to approach first.

"Lieutenant Ferin," the Steward greeted cordially. "You have come to report?"

"Yes, my Lord. My men and I tracked down the group of thieves successfully. It turned out they were no normal band of highwaymen, my Lord. They were all Dunlendings, save for their leader."

"You captured them?" Echthelion questioned grimly, disturbed to hear of Dunlendings within their borders.

Ferin looked away uncomfortably. "Yes, we captured three of them alive. However, during the night someone snuck into our camp and slit their throats."

Echthelion clenched his jaw and frowned.

"There is something more to add, but it might be better told by Captain Thorongil and Lieutenant Araedhelm," Ferin added.

"Thank you, Lieutenant Ferin. You've had a long journey—go and rest for now. If I need you further I will send for you." After Ferin had bowed respectfully and departed, Echthelion turned his searching gaze on Thorongil and Araedhelm. "You are welcome, of course, Captain Thorongil, and you Lieutenant Araedhelm."

Thorongil inclined his head slightly. "My Lord, I bear urgent news from King Thengel."

Echthelion's eyes met his, and Thorongil noticed his statement hadn't surprised the Steward at all. It looked as if he'd been _expecting _a message of this sort, possibly even hoping for one. His gaze was calm, and slightly relieved, but lined underneath with worry. Thorongil held out the message to him, and he took it wordlessly, opening it and scanning its contents unhurriedly. Finally, he refolded it and turned back to the two of them.

"Captain, did Thengel confide the contents of this letter to you?"

"Aye, he discussed the matter with me at some length." Seeing Ecthelion's gaze divert to Araedhelm, Thorongil hastened to add, "And anything you say to me may be said in front of Lieutenant Araedhelm. With or without his consent, he has already been involved in this."

Ecthelion's eyes lingered on the sling on Araedhelm's arm. "Indeed. And what is it that you have to add to Lieutenant Ferin's report?"

Thorongil was silent for moment, then he began softly, "Thengel-King told me his concerns before we left, and told me to bring this message to you. After the events of yesterday, I believe there is even more cause to be worried. On our way here, we temporarily separated, and Lieutenant Araedhelm was captured by the band of Dunlendings Lieutenant Ferin was chasing. They mistook him for me and…questioned him." A hint of anger showed itself in Thorongil's otherwise poised demeanor. "I'm sure you are familiar with the Dunlendingss methods of getting answers. Fortunately, Lieutenant Araedhelm is as stubborn as they come," here he favored his friend with a brief smile, "and with Lieutenant Ferin's help I was able to rescue him."

Ecthelion listened to the end without interrupting, then he turned to Araedhelm. "And what did they want, Lieutenant?"

"Nothing I knew the answer to, my Lord. They seemed to know about the message the king was sending you. They wanted to know where it was, and what it said."

"I see. Then you are right, Captain, something is very wrong." The Steward ran a hand wearily over his face, and glanced down at the letter in hand. "Thengel is right. Someone is trying, somehow, cast doubt on our standing with each other, and in doing so, to confuse the relationship between our countries. We must talk. Face-to-face."

* * *

**To be continued…**

**Must. Get. Sleep. –does zombie impersonation- Must. Thank. Reviewers. First. (Really, thanks heaps you lovely reviewers—and I'll try to say something more witty and expressive of my gratitude the next time I'm in a coherent state…)**


	20. Guessing Blindly

_**See chapter one for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes.**_

**A/N: Well, as you can see, I'm switching to posting Mondays, at least for now. We'll see how this works with the unpredictable summer schedule. ;)**

**Thank you from the bottom of my thoroughly thankful author's heart for the reviews. :-) I haven't gotten around to replying to a couple of you, but I hope to do so later this week… **

**Unfortunately, no Thorongil this chapter, but this one should wrap up a few lose ends.**

* * *

**Chapter 20: Guessing Blindly **

Morwen stared out at the sea of waving grass beyond her window.

Excitement filled her heart. In all the confused events following her husband's return, she'd forgotten to tell Thengel about the news. The fact that she was pregnant—that they were going to have another child—had not grown less exciting to her, but she had grown a little more accustomed to the thought. Now, with a fresh jolt of exhilaration at thought of the news, she realized she'd never told Thengel. She smiled, and shook her head self-admonishingly. How could she have forgotten? Well, it didn't matter, there had hardly been a quiet, or appropriate, moment to tell him before. But now she was fairly bursting to tell him.

The door opened, and, as if her wish had drawn him to her, Thengel entered the room. At sight of his smiling wife, he asked in a slightly bewildered, but pleased, voice, "What's this? Has something happened?"

"Yes."

"Something good, I take it?"

Morwen nodded, still smiling.

"Are you going to keep me guessing all evening, or are you going to tell me?"

"I suppose I could keep you guessing a bit longer…" Morwen replied, teasingly. She liked to see Thengel distracted from his cares like this. He'd been so serious lately, they all had been. But she could see some of the worry slide from his shoulders as they fell into the rhythm of playful banter.

"Alright," he said, playing along. "You bought a horse."

Morwen laughed, sitting down on the bed.

"I'll take that as a no, then. Let's see…" He sat down on a chair near the bed. "You've come up with a new decorating scheme, and are going to renovate the entire Golden Hall?"

Morwen smiled slyly. "No. But that's not a bad idea…"

"Remember, these are guesses, not _suggestions_." He paused in thought. "I know—you found a servant who actually meets your standard of 'clean', _and _who doesn't rearrange your things so you're constantly trying to find where everything is."

Morwen gave a dramatic sigh. "I only wish. Guess again."

Thengel matched her sly smile of a moment ago, warning her that his next guess would be his most purposefully ridiculous yet. "Hmm…then there's only one thing I know of that could have possibly put you in this happy a mood."

"Oh?"

"Lord Mannalic's coming for a visit, is he?"

Without warning, Morwen snatched up a pillow and hit him squarely in the face with it. He raised an arm to ward off a second blow.

"No more, I surrender!"

Morwen stopped, crossing her arms over the pillow, and smirking. "Any more brilliant guesses?"

Thengel shook his head. "I give up. What is it?"

Abruptly, the smirk left Morwen's face and her expression softened into a secretive smile. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you this before. I know I should have, but…I just didn't want you to think I was using it to try to keep you from leaving, and I didn't want you to worry any more than you already were about me while you were gone. And then when you got back, Thorongil was in trouble, and right after the trial we were all so concerned, it wasn't until today I realized I'd never told you at all…" Realizing she was babbling on, she halted the run-on sentence to conclude with a hasty, "But I still should have remembered to tell you before this."

Confused and curious now, Thengel repeated the question, this time, more seriously, "What is it?"

"Don't look so worried, it _is_ good news." Morwen's eyes shone. "We're going to have another baby."

Thengel went absolutely still for one moment, his eyes slightly wide with uncomprehending surprise as the news sunk in. Then a slow, sparkling grin spread across his face, and he was moving again, taking her in his arms. She returned the embrace, resting her chin on his shoulder, laughing as he held her tighter and lifted her momentarily off the ground, whirling her in a gentle circle before lowering her back down.

"That's wonderful," he breathed. "_Wonderful_. It's the best news I've heard all week—all _year_!"

Morwen couldn't stop smiling. She'd known Thengel would, of course, be happy, but to actually see, and _feel_, his enthusiasm made her joy complete.

**---o—oOo—o---**

Heolstor strode quickly through the dimly lit corridors, hoping he might reach the dungeons without meeting anyone. His acting skills were as intact as ever, and he had several plausible excuses he could give for his mission, but he was feeling far too impatient this morning to relish the idea of chatting idly about the weather with some maddeningly cheerful, oblivious busybody. He'd laughed and chatted with enough cheerful idiots in the last couple of days to last him a lifetime. Curse the need for dissimulation… Ah well, it might be over soon, if everything ran smoothly.

Mehdal rarely failed him. He was counting on him not to fail him this time. Thorongil had been begging for death recently, with his chivalrous displays of heroics, and Heolstor was eager to give it to him. He didn't have time to "convince" him to join his side. Thorongil had thrown away his chance. The letter could _not_ be delivered.

His mind was pacing restlessly on into the possible near-future. The letter would be destroyed, Mehdal would not fail him. And then the final pieces of the puzzle would fit together nicely. Of course, a part of him remained prepared for failure, but he was weary of making counter-plans, and counters to counter-plans. Couldn't anything work _right_ for a change?

He grinned at thought of the man in the prison cell ahead. There was one thing that had gone as planned. Eothald was as easily corruptible and malleable a man as he'd ever had the pleasure to poison. Eothald was one of his first true successes. A pity, then, that he might have to be gotten rid of in the future… But not yet. He couldn't afford to kill him now, and expose the fact that someone else had been behind Thorongil's imprisonment. He'd been able to make it appear that he had only unwillingly helped and cooperated with Eothald during that whole fiasco because he'd been forced to by the man's position, and through hopes that he might limit the damage done, if the man had lost his mind as it appeared. No one knew yet the true depth of his involvement.

Two guards blocked the way to the cell, and they stiffened as he approached. Upon recognizing him in the low torchlight, the rigidness relaxed a modicum, but they still stood, bowing their heads respectfully.

"My Lord," one of them greeted in a relieved tone. "it's you."

"Of course it's me, I told you'd I'd arrive early," Heolstor snapped. "And even if it wasn't me, you still don't have to be so jumpy. You'll make someone suspicious. Just do your job."

They both swallowed nervously, each murmuring a sullen "Yes, sir".

Heolstor rolled his eyes, but on second thought, realizing he couldn't afford to have them hate him, added, "Do as I say, and you'll be rewarded handsomely. I promise." The resentful expressions were replaced with greedy ones. Good. _That_ emotion always suited his purposes just fine. He withdrew a well-wrapped vial from the folds of his cape and handed it to one of them. "Be careful with that. Don't let anyone see it." He glanced into the cell. Eothald was laying haphazardly, half slumped against the wall, sound asleep. "Slip a small amount of this into the prisoner's water rations every three days. A _small_ amount. More wouldn't harm him, necessarily, but I don't want to risk coming here again, so try to make this last as long as you can. A week or so should do. Be certain you get it in his next meal. The effect of the last dose might be wearing off by now."

Satisfied, he quickly left the dungeons behind. Now, his greatest challenge would be waiting, and forcing himself to rest. He was going to need all his strength soon.

**---o—oOo—o---**

The afternoon passed into evening, and still, every time they looked at each other one or both of them would end up with a ridiculous smile on their face. It seemed like all the stress of the last several weeks was finally draining out of them, seeking an outlet in their joy. Thengel had put off most of his trivial duties for the day, and they'd spent their time walking at leisure in the garden, or reading, or simply being together.

The evening was turning out to be a cool one, but instead of calling for a servant, Thengel went about preparing and lighting a fire himself. Sitting curled up in a chair next to it, Morwen dozed off for a time. When she roused, she watched her husband through cracked eyelids for a time. He was deep in thought, staring into the flames, and she was disturbed to see a frown etched into the lines of his forehead.

"What are you thinking about?"

Thengel started, blinking once before snapping out of his reverie. "Thinking about?" he asked absently.

"Well I hope you were thinking about _something _while you're sitting over there looking so grim and imposing."

He chuckled, but she could detect a falseness to the sound, and pressed him further. "What's troubling you?"

"Nothing so serious that you need worry…" Her look stopped him. He chuckled again, this time with more genuine amusement. "I should know better than to try my excuses with you."

"Mmm," Morwen gave a low noise of agreement. "You should know better." She leaned attentively towards him on the arm of her chair, waiting, her eyes gently urging.

"And I'd be a downright fool to try to resist that look… Truthfully, I was just wishing I might ask your opinion. It's about Eothald. Something must be done about him. If most people had their way something would be done _to _him. I don't know what I should do, but I don't suppose I can just keep my late sister's husband conveniently locked away forever without so much as a trial. But what would I even try him for? Erroneous judgment? I can't bring myself to believe he'd actually order Thorongil to be _tortured_."

"He's not himself. At Thorongil's trial he was so…passionate, so worked-up. I've never seen him act so irrationally. Maybe he's really gone mad."

"Well what does one do with a dangerously mad relative? Hide him away? There's something so strange about it all… Why the sudden change in him?"

Morwen shrugged. "Maybe the power went to his head…literally." She shook her head at her own idea. "But he always seemed to me the kind of man to retreat under strain, not go _crazy_."

A thoughtful silence lapsed between them.

Thengel inhaled deeply, and let his breath trail out slowly. "Tomorrow I think I will have a word with Eothald."

"But Anborn has already tried, multiple times. Eothald simply isn't talking—to anyone. He's either raging or lethargic, but he never says anything that makes sense. Anborn says he still insists that Thorongil is a traitor, plotting against us all."

"I know. But whatever is going on, he must be the key to it. If I can only get him to talk half-sanely, he might give us the answers we need."

**---o—oOo—o---**

"Eothald, _please_… Talk to me." Thengel stood just inside the cell, watching Eothald intently.

Eothald leaned languidly against the wall in a sitting position, his head tilted back, eyes glazed and fixed vacantly on the light streaming in through the barred window set high up on the stone wall. He didn't answer. He hadn't even acknowledged the king's presence yet.

Thengel remained patient. Squatting next to the prisoner, he spoke quietly. "Eothald, please, you must tell me your thoughts. Tell me your side of things. Why did you accuse Thorongil? You know he's an honorable man." Silence and stillness greeted his pleas. He licked his lips, and started back with a basic question. "Eothald, do you recognize me?"

Ever so slowly, Eothald turned his head away from the light. His face was haggard and grey, a few days' growth of beard and rumpled clothing adding to his bedraggled appearance. He blinked a couple of times, squinting blearily at Thengel. "Thengel?" he croaked.

Thengel nodded enthusiastically. Eothald's voice was confused, but the clarity in his eyes was encouraging. "Yes, Eothald, it's me."

Eothald swallowed and frowned, his eyes darting around the cell. He looked back at Thengel, a sudden desperation in his eyes. "What have I done?" he whispered.

Uncertain as to what he meant, Thengel started uncertainly, "You—"

"What have I done?" Eothald repeated dazedly, cutting him off. "I shouldn't have listened to him, but I…didn't know…"

"Didn't know what?"

"Didn't know…" Eothald trailed off, and for a minute Thengel didn't think he'd go on. Then he finished quietly, "I didn't know he'd…do that to me. I didn't know he could. I-I…don't even remember him doing anything, but he must have…"

"Done what?" Finally, he was getting somewhere. Thengel even fancied he saw sanity somewhere in Eothald's clouded eyes.

Eothald didn't answer directly, merely continuing his rambling narrative. "H-he was always trapping me places…in my room…" The desperation returned. He sat up, all lethargy vanished, and looked feverishly at Thengel. "H-he kept giving me something…something…I thought it was just wine. And then I couldn't think straight. Just when I began to see again, he'd be there…and then… He said he was my friend. I thought… I don't know!" His words were almost a sob. "I-I have these vague memories... I did something, didn't I?" He was shaking now, sweat rolling down his forehead. His eyes were glued desperately on Thengel. "What have I done?"

"Who?" Thengel spoke intently. "Who gave you the wine?"

Eothald was breathing harshly, panting for air as if he couldn't get enough into his lungs. He closed his eyes, and gasped out, "Heolstor…" Then he passed out.

In a daze over his words, Thengel caught him and lowered him into a lying position, his mind working furiously. Despite Eothald's cooperation, and the revelation that he'd been drugged, not acting completely out of freewill, he couldn't be released yet. He'd still done something wrong, and if what he'd said was true—if Heolstor had drugged him—then it would be safer for him to remain where he was.

He could hardly believe it, though. Heolstor? Calm, boringly normal Heolstor, drugging someone? For what purpose? Perhaps Eothald was simply babbling more ridiculous, paranoid accusations. He'd already claimed one of his captains was a conspirator, after all. If it hadn't been for the fact that Thorongil had expressed his own uncertainties regarding Heolstor on several occasions in the past, he might have been more inclined toward a dismissive attitude at the fresh accusations. But, it would have to be looked into. If Eothald had been drugged, it would explain a lot. And at the same time, the very suggestion opened up innumerable, and more puzzling, questions.

**---o—oOo—o---**

Thengel and Anborn restlessly awaited the return of Neylor, whom Thengel had sent down to Eothald's cell some time ago.

There was nothing left to discuss, the king had already explained his discoveries to Anborn, but most of it was still speculation. When the healer returned, they might have a few more facts. Lately, many things they'd both taken for granted were being clouded with suspicion, causing them to question everything—and, with this most recent news, every_one_ around them.

Thengel forced himself to stay seated, instead of pacing. Even though he was being careful about jumping to conclusions, somehow, he knew. He knew what report Neylor would bring him. He'd known for weeks that something was wrong—that someone in his circle of "friends" was not a friend at all—but now he was beginning to see how that someone was linked to all the turmoil that surrounded him. It made him shiver to think that one man might be orchestrating it all. And to think that that same someone wasn't in hiding at all, but brazenly daring open society. The rumors of someone corrupt having invaded Meduseld appeared to be absolutely correct, but only in his wildest guesses would he have considered Eothald or Heolstor.

The more he tried not to think about Heolstor, the more frequently his mind darted back to him. The thought of Heolstor being a traitor, perhaps more than anything, shook him to the core. Thorongil had suggested it, yes, but then it had always been suspicion, which even Thorongil himself admitted he had no solid foundation for. Even that had done little to truly prepare him for what might well turn out to be solid fact. It wasn't that he was specifically attached to the captain, certainly not on as familiar terms with him as with Thorongil or Anborn, but Heolstor and his ancestors had always been loyal to Rohan.

The sudden Death of Captain Halesyen had come as shock to them all. But, once his grief had abated, Heolstor had slid easily into his father's place, the natural and obvious choice to fill his father's shoes, handling the position in a way that would have made his family proud, had any of them still been alive. He'd been lauded for his ability carry on after his loss, and then gradually slipped out of public attention into a quiet life of faithful service, just as his father, and his father's father, had in their days. Or so they'd all thought.

With this new accusation of Eothald's, Thengel found himself tracing back over the years, scrutinizing every memory he had of Heolstor. Nothing. No memory stood out from the other in any way. Heolstor was just…normal. He was a capable, intelligent soldier and leader. Heolstor had never seemed to be anything other than what he was at face value. Even with Thorongil, when he'd first arrived, he'd been suspicious, if only for a little while. But Heolstor was such an interwoven part of Rohan, perhaps having drifted a bit into a position in the background, but always there nonetheless…

Thengel shook his head in a futile endeavor to clear his scrambling thoughts. He noticed absently that, from the look on his face, Anborn was wrestling with his own thoughts, and being beaten and confused by them just as much as he was.

By the time Neylor returned, he was feeling abnormally irritable, and anxious to hear what he had to say. So, when the healer entered with his trade-mark expression of deep thoughtfulness, and a bit of self-satisfied smugness, Thengel decided he wasn't going to stand for it.

"Neylor, don't you dare make me beg for a straight answer," he snapped before the old healer had even opened his mouth. "Not today. I need answers."

Neylor nodded a few times, acting as if he'd never given anything but straight-forward answers. "Of course not, Sire."

Anborn was silent, recognizing the King's mood and allowing him to deal with the healer in his own way. The whole routine might have been comical, but the reason for their conference was too serious, and he could see that neither Neylor or Thengel were taking it lightly.

Neylor cleared his throat, ignoring Thengel's stern gaze and speaking with un-harried professionalism, as always. "I will be clear, but there isn't much to say. You were right, Sire, Lord Eothald is indeed being drugged. Has been for some time, if I'm not mistaken."

"What kind of drug could make him act like he has been? He seems like a different man."

Neylor nodded again. "Yes. It's an unusual drug, one that could only be made a very knowledgeable herbalist. I've only seen it used once before."

"And the effect of this poison, did it work the same as whatever is being used on Eothald?" Thengel questioned, feeling oddly relieved to have a reason for Eothald's behavior. He hadn't yet, however, let himself realize what this information might mean about Heolstor as well.

"To some degree." Neylor hastened to elaborate before Thengel could accuse him of vagueness. "It's called Metalen. Although it varies from person to person, its main effect is to render the person under its influence extremelysusceptible to suggestion. Along with that, other symptoms may include confusion and grogginess—especially as the drug begins to wear off—fluctuating moods, sudden changes in temperament, loss of memory… In prolonged cases, or if the person is sensitive to it, they may also have hallucinations—"

Thengel had only gone on half-listening as Neylor rattled off the list of other symptoms, his attention still back on the first and foremost effect of the drug. "It makes a person susceptible to suggestion? How susceptible?"

"As I said, it can vary quite a bit from person to person."

"But could it have made Eothald act the way he has been?" Thengel pressed.

Uncharacteristically, Neylor appeared uncertain and hesitant to answer. "It…could, I suppose. It's hard to say for certain."

"Could it, or could it not? How likely is it?" Thengel didn't let him back out.

Neylor set his jaw and sighed. "Yes. It could have. It's not a small possibility, not with a man of Lord Eothald's…irresolute disposition. He's never been one to have a strong opinion about many things, and it's just conceivable that someone _gave _him one. Someone with a strong will, whispering the right words in his ear over a period of time… Yes. It _is_ a possibility, however disturbing."

Disturbing, to say the least. Unexpectedly, an image of a smiling Heolstor, whispering into Eothald's ear, sprang unbidden to Thengel's mind. He dashed the picture away with a shake of his head. "How long would that period of time need to be, before a person would take these whispered opinions as their own?"

"There, I really cannot give you a solid answer. It would doubtless take many doses of Metalen. For Eothald, it must have taken some time as well, if no one saw any noticeable change in him until his recent explosion. He certainly appears to believe firmly that Thorongil is a traitor. It could have been weeks, months...or even a year of gradually building doses of the drug and implanting suggestions."

A fresh chill ran down Thengel's spine. He felt so blind and vulnerable, and suddenly very afraid of what he might find should he order Heolstor's rooms searched. But he knew that, at the least, Heolstor would have to be confronted. There was still the possibility, however, that Eothald was simply raving again when it came to the actual identity of the person drugging him.

"Shall I summon Heolstor, Sire?" Anborn inquired hesitantly.

Neylor was watching him with a contradicting mixture of worry tempered by patience.

"No, we will go to him ourselves," Thengel responded decidedly, even though in his mind he was anything but certain of what to do.

If he accused Heolstor now, openly, to his face, and was proven wrong later, he could do irreparable damage to their relationship. He wished he had more solid evidence, but he knew there was little chance of getting anywhere unless they proved or disproved Heolstor's guilt first. Shoving aside his own displeasure, he led Anborn and Neylor towards Heolstor's rooms with a firm step, determined to get this painful ordeal over with.

He knocked on the door with more boldness than he felt. Then they waited, the intimidating silence stretching on. He knocked again. Undoubtedly, the waiting only seemed magnified due to his nerves and because of the apprehension he felt. But no answer came. Not after a third knock, or a fourth. He cleared his throat.

"Lord Heolstor, are you there?" No answer. He turned to Anborn. "Perhaps he's already left his rooms this morning?"

"I don't think so, Sire. It's only just dawn, and Captain Heolstor is not exactly known to be an early riser," Anborn pointed out.

Still, Thengel hesitated. Making a forced entry into Heolstor's rooms would be declaration of sorts. It would launch him down the path of no return, no backing down. But Anborn was right, Heolstor never appeared in court earlier than necessary, always arriving promptly on time, but rarely lingering beforehand. Besides, it was early for anyone to be up, besides the servants. Heolstor really should still be in his rooms. He relented, however begrudgingly.

With little hope that it would be unlocked, but feeling the compulsion to at least try it before resorting to knocking down the door, Thengel grasped the handle. To his surprise, it turned, and the door swung open. What lay beyond the door came as an even greater shock.

* * *

**To be continued...**


	21. Unmasked

**A/N: Hey all - Imbecamiel here. Remember Nef said that if she were to die, I'd finish posting the story for her? Well... Okay, no, she's _not _dead. But she is at physical therapy today, so she asked me to post for her so you all wouldn't have to wait :-)**

**So, here's chapter 21 - hope you enjoy!**

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**Chapter 21: Unmasked**

Thengel stood in the doorway, stunned and unable to completely process what he was seeing and what it meant. Anborn and Neylor came up on either side of him. Anborn released a slow sigh.

"Well, I guess we don't need to worry about confronting him."

Thengel nodded numbly. The room was almost completely barren, save for the largest pieces of furniture. All the color seemed drained from the usually richly-furnished room. Heolstor was gone, and so were all his belongings.

Thengel stood in the center of the room while Anborn and Neylor made a slow circuit of the room, the old healer quickly becoming interested in a large cabinet to one side, and Anborn in painstakingly opening every drawer in the long, dark-wooded bureau on the opposite wall.

The king's surprise was gradually replaced by curiosity. Apparently, somehow, Heolstor knew they'd found him out. How he knew was impossible to say, but the captain must have had a good and attentive source of information to have found out so quickly.

He followed Anborn's movements as he turned from the bureau to investigate another corner of the room. There wasn't much to find, but there was plenty to wonder over. The room was not only stripped completely bare of anything of value, but it was also completely and bewilderingly immaculate. The bed was made, looking as if it hadn't been slept in, and every drawer and cabinet closed. An overall attempt at tidiness seemed to have been made. Not at all the kind of room you'd expect find in the wake of a traitor making a break for it. It was eerie to look at, and even eerier to think of Heolstor, hiding deceit behind an impeccable mask of smiles.

A grunt of satisfaction pulled him from his dazed thoughts. Neylor was nodding, obviously pleased with something he'd found in the tall cabinet. Thengel came closer, peering over his shoulder. He couldn't see anything. The numerous shelves that lined the inside of the cabinet were as bare as the rest of the room.

Seeing his confusion, Neylor explained without the usual compulsion any enlightenment from him required. "Can you smell it, Sire?"

Thengel frowned, still confused, but leaned closer and inhaled. At first, he couldn't smell anything, but then he caught of waft of something. It was a sweet scent, so potently sweet it made him feel instantly overwhelmed. It was only a lingering scent, and yet it made him feel inexplicably nauseated and repulsed.

Neylor witnessed his reaction with a wry smile. "Yes, it is a very powerful herb, especially in its raw form. When processed it loses the strong scent, but the odor from the raw material can linger for quite a long time."

Thengel stared at him. "You mean then, that it is? Heolstor really did…?"

Neylor voiced what the king could bring himself to say. "Aye. He kept Metalen in here all right."

"You have no doubts of it?" Anborn asked, coming up behind them, and getting his first whiff of the sickeningly sweet smell. His eyes widened just slightly, an unusual expression to see on the seemingly imperturbable captain's face.

In response to his question, Neylor answered, his smile even wryer than before. "Could you forget such a scent, Captain Anborn? Even though I've only had the opportunity less than a handful of times, I know it when I smell it."

Anborn nodded wordlessly.

Thengel was beginning to gather some semblance of self-possession again, frustrated at himself for having lost it in the first place. He needed to be moving forward, not living in regret and shock. The decidedness with which he spoke next was not forced as before.

"If you are certain it is Metalen, then I suppose we have no need of further proof." Thengel moved away from the cabinet, and away from the smell that pervaded it. Even in these few moments, its overpowering properties were giving him a headache. "Heolstor has fled, incriminating himself."

_Incriminating himself of what?_ his thoughts begged the question. What, exactly, was Heolstor now proven guilty _of_? Certainly of drugging Eothald. But why had he done it? What did Heolstor want? How could meticulously forming Eothald into a weak-willed puppet possibly do him any good? It all seemed so ludicrous and convoluted. A thought struck him, and he turned to Neylor.

"Heolstor must have given Metalen to Eothald in order to make him open to suggestion, right?"

"It's the only real reason for using it."

"Well, then, it would seem the real question is, what was it that Heolstor wanted so badly for Eothald to believe?"

**---o—oOo—o---**

Although the hour was growing late, Thorongil could find no peace of mind. The will to be thinking was stronger than the urges of his body to rest. Spacious though his quarters were, there wasn't nearly enough space to pace properly. Not at the rate his thoughts were moving. Every time he encountered a wall his mind seemed freeze for a second, and then he'd turn around and begin the circular reasoning all over again, matching his circular walking pattern.

Mentally, and physically, he felt at a stalemate. He felt a little foolish, letting worry drive him crazy like this, but he knew lying in bed trying to still his thoughts wasn't going to work until he had exhausted both aspects. With an inward shrug of surrender to his own mood, he left his rooms behind for the unlimited space beyond, and started walking briskly with absolutely no idea of were he was going.

Perhaps it was the need to escape the somehow ironically confining vaulted ceilings and imposing grandeur of the building, or perhaps it was simply the need to be outside, but he soon ended up in the gardens. He smiled at the subconscious choice, agreeing with it wholeheartedly. A ride might be even better, even if he were just to descend into the city a ways. But he decided against it. He might get rid of his own worries that way, but he'd probably give Araedhelm a whole new source of anxiety.

Thus coming to the decision to stay and walk in the gardens for a time, he had a full ten seconds of peace before his thoughts began the monotonous circle of useless speculation. _What? _he mocked himself. _You actually think you can solve the world's problems by simply putting your mind to it? _He needed answers, many more answers, before he could even begin to put two and two together. He had one half-solid piece of evidence, and a whole lot of thoughts, and feelings, and suppositions.

Apparently, someone was interfering with the royal correspondence between King Thengel and Steward Ecthelion. That could mean a lot of things, none of them comfortable to linger over. If it was a practical joker with an odd sense of humor, he must also be completely insane to try targeting a _king's _correspondence. He knew the relationship between Thengel and Ecthelion was as strong as the ties between Rohan and Gondor. But a wrong word here, an implied insult there… It could all create tension, or, at the least, a few hard feelings and misunderstandings.

Maybe that was what disturbed him the most, the subtlety of the thing. This was one patient practical-joker, playing a very _im_practical prank. Even as he shook his head over thoughts of some hare-brained idiot, he knew perfectly well he was only avoiding the obvious. No one would mess around with something as important as the relationship between two world powers, unless they meant to cause trouble.

Thorongil ran a hand through his hair, feeling as if he'd reached the end of his speculations for the evening. Perhaps he'd been wrong earlier, about not being tired. He certainly felt tired _now_. And suddenly it didn't seem as if there was much more to think about—or at least not anything more he _wanted_ to think about.

He made his way back to his room, hardly paying attention to the way, but regardless ending up at the right door. Although he managed to stow all his worries away at the back of his mind, he was very glad to remember that on the following day he and Araedhelm would begin their return trip to Rohan. Perhaps once he'd seen, with his own eyes, that everything was well he'd believe it. A vague, almost taunting, question echoed in his mind as he fell asleep that night. _What if everything is _not _well in Rohan?_

**---o—oOo—o---**

Thankfully, the return trip to Edoras met with no highway-robbers, hostile forces, evil creatures, or disaster of any kind. Thus, after ordering Araedhelm to get some rest, it was in a pleasantly surprised frame of mind, and injury-free state of body, that Thorongil made his way towards the Thengel's rooms. He was ushered into the presence of a broadly-smiling king.

"Thorongil," Thengel motioned him to a seat. "I see you have managed to return to me in one piece."

"I was just noticing that myself," Thorongil noted wryly. Despite Thengel's warm greeting, he could detect a sense of simmering unease, and noted the way the king was fidgeting abstractedly with his signet ring.

Before Thorongil could ask any questions himself, Thengel continued, "I have some grave news. But before I tell you all that I'd like to know about your journey."

Despite his own curiosity, Thorongil obediently complied. "I fear I have some serious news, myself."

In painful detail, knowing Thengel would want to know everything, he related the events of the trip without omission. He was treated to the sight of Thengel's demeanor changing expression numerous times from surprise to anger to relief. When he'd finished they sat in tired, brooding silence.

"Lieutenant Araedhelm is recovering well? He is resting?"

"Under duress…"

Thengel cracked a smile at that. "I am relieved to hear that Ecthelion is as confused as I over our correspondence, and that he knows I intended nothing ill toward him. You said he wishes to meet with me—I assume you discussed that more in-depth with him?"

"I did."

They launched into a conversation of trivial matters: time, places, escorts… Both of them were content to let weightier discussion elude them for a while. Even if it was an obvious digression to both parties, it was a mutually accepted digression. But at last, when they'd begun to run out of inconsequential subject matter, they were left with nothing _but_ distasteful news to talk about.

"You mentioned some bad news, my Lord?" Thorongil queried.

Thengel looked away, more ill-at-ease than before as he continued to fidget uncharacteristically. "I probably should have came out and told you this right away, Captain, since it is of vital importance, but it is very surprising, and very…disturbing and sad news, and… And you're bound to say 'I told you so' as soon as you hear it." The slight amusement in his voice waxed and waned quickly. "You were right about Captain Heolstor."

The simple statement was straightforward enough to send a chill down Thorongil's spine, and vague enough to make his head spin with questions. "_How_ was I right about him?"

"Let me put it this way: every suspicion you've voiced about him is more than accurate. He drugged Eothald."

"Drugged him? With what?"

Thengel told him about his visit with Eothald in the dungeons, Neylor's assessment and description of the drug, and of their search of Heolstor's empty room. "After that, I decided to pay Eothald another visit, in the hopes the drug might have worn off and he might be able to give us some details about his interaction with Heolstor. He was dead, Captain. Poisoned."

In conclusion to that macabre statement, the incongruous sound of a child's laughter echoed in the hall without. Thengel's face softened from its hard look of a moment ago as he recognized the sound of Théoden's chattering voice.

"Oh please, Fel, just tell me _you'll_ help me if he says yes. _Please_? It would be so much fun, and I know I'm big enough now…"

"We shall see what your father says." Feldon's quiet, patient voice was much harder to hear. "Ah, no, wait, my Lord. Your father may be meeting with someone. Best to knock first."

A small rap sounded on the door at about knee-level.

"Come in, Théoden."

The door swung inward with an energetic push, and Théoden bounded in. Feldon's long stride made up for his lack of exuberance as he kept up with the child. The riding-master bowed to Thengel even as Théoden began to chatter animatedly, his small hands gesturing and mouth moving at an extraordinarily rapid rate. There wasn't a marked beginning or end to the tirade, the words pouring out endlessly with no sign of there being an end.

"…I know you said no last time, but I'm older now, right? I'm big enough, aren't I? Fel would come with me, and…"

"Hold on there," Thengel interrupted smilingly. "I'm not about to say yes when I haven't a clue what I'm agreeing to."

Catching his breath, Théoden continued his pleading with a bit more composure, although his brown eyes remained wide with anticipation. "Master Feldon's been teaching me nearly every day in the pens, and I've been working so hard, you said someday I'd be able to go out…"

"Ah, so your skills have progressed beyond these limiting walls, is that what you're telling me?" Thengel asked, his voice only half teasing. He knew Théoden, young though he was, was deadly earnest about his riding, and to laugh at his enthusiasm would mortify him. He felt a warm pride flood his heart as he looked into the earnest face of his son. At seven, Théoden wasn't _quite_ ready to ride to war, but someday he would be. Making a decision, he turned his attention to Feldon. "So, is it true? Is your pupil ready to advance?"

Feldon smiled warmly, and paused in thought, but wasn't so cruel as to leave Théoden in suspense for too long. "Yes. I think my student has done admirably well these past few weeks."

The praise brought a huge grin to Théoden's face. He looked expectantly back at his father. "I'd be really careful, and not go too fast, or too far, and Master Feldon would be watching, and…"

"Alright, you've convinced me. _But _in addition to Master Feldon, I want two guards with you." Thengel leveled a meaningful look at Feldon. "I want you to keep a close eye on him, and don't stay out too long."

Feldon inclined his head. "I will, my Lord."

Théoden's whole body seemed to vibrate with excitement. "Will you come and watch?"

Thengel hesitated. Several of his more over-excitable courtiers were waiting to talk to him, and he knew Anborn wanted a word with him as well. The search for Heolstor was being overseen by the captain, unfortunately with no luck so far. "Perhaps in a bit, but there a few things I must do first."

Thengel's face only fell for a second before he turned expectantly on Thorongil. "Can you come?"

Thorongil smiled. How could you say no to a face like _that_? "I'd like that very much, after I've finished talking with your father."

As soon as he'd received the answer, Théoden bounded out of them room, leaving Feldon to bow again and follow in his wake.

"Now he'll never be satisfied with riding in the pastures," Thorongil commented, breaking the ensuing silence.

Thengel chuckled. "He never _was_ satisfied with riding in the pastures." A shadow of anxiety clouded the king's face.

"You are concerned about him leaving the city?" Thorongil guessed.

"Yes, but I can't very well change my mind now." Thengel shook his head and the shadow passed. "Besides, Heolstor is probably a long way from here by now, and I have a good number of men out scouring the country for him. I doubt I have to fear anything from him. And he'll have Feldon, two guards, and you to keep an eye on him." He raised an amused eyebrow. "Though, with your record of near-catastrophes, I'm not so certain I want you around my son…"

Thorongil barely concealed a grin. "Ah, but, as you pointed out, I _did_ return in one piece this time. Perhaps my fortune has changed."

"One can always hope, my friend."

"Before I go, Sire, are there any orders you have for me? I assume there are already men searching for Heolstor. Perhaps you would like me to aid the hunt? If the immediate area has already been searched I could take a few of my men and—"

"Captain," Thengel's voice was filled with exasperated incredulity. "You've only just returned today. Rest for a day or two—or _three_. Anborn and his Eored are thoroughly covering the countryside for miles around. Set a good example for your lieutenant and stay put for few minutes at a time. I need at least one of my captains here in full strength and health. Men I know I can trust seem to be becoming increasingly scarce lately." He could tell by the gradual relaxing of his broad shoulders that Thorongil was listening and, hopefully, planning on obeying. "There is one thing, though, before you go. Although I told Théoden not to stay out too long, I think I've changed my mind. Eothald's funeral is to be held today, and I think I'd rather not have him there. I have no doubt he could handle it well enough, but…" His sigh was long and weary. "But I'd like to let him have day of fun for a change. Sometimes he seems far too serious for a child his age."

"I understand, my Lord."

"And _you_: go have some fun yourself, Captain," Thengel urged. "Go distract my son for an hour or two. We can get back to our gloomy brooding on a day when the sun is shining less brightly."

"I won't argue with that, Sire."

**---o—oOo—o---**

Sun and wind and a sturdy mount beneath him. Théoden had often imagined himself in this position—only riding off to war and conquest instead of a pleasure ride. Still, his imagination had never felt quite so free as now, with an ever-expanding horizon in front of him, in contrast to the usual confining pasture gates.

What did it matter that he had no weapon, and was being carefully baby-sat by a handful of guards and his riding teacher? And so what if said "sturdy mount" was only a pony? She was a brave and loyal companion, and Théoden was convinced she would have done fine in battle—if not for her size. Come to think of it, her situation was much like his own. Too small. Too little to be of much use. Yet.

The next time Théoden focused in on reality, and his companions, they'd reached their destination, and they were riding into the inviting shade afforded by the gnarled branches of the old tree—the _only_ tree for some distance. It presented an odd, but striking picture against the backdrop of golden plains and, beyond that, the white-capped mountains. Théoden had always thought it looked lonely, isolated on its solitary hill.

"Théoden?"

Feldon was beckoning to him, and he realized that their escort of soldiers was already beneath the tree, dismounting. He trotted his mount over to his teacher, sitting atop his pony as if she was a war-horse, and he a full-grown warrior, little realizing the humorous picture he must present.

Feldon looked away to the horizon quickly to hide a mixed look of pride and amusement. "Shall we ride, your Highness?" He continued to watch Théoden, as the child easily maneuvered his small mount with a dexterity and grace that only left room for pride on his teacher's face.

However well he'd taught the young prince, though, he knew Théoden's ease in the saddle was mostly inherent rather than learned. He'd probably have done very well without his help. _Of course he would have, _he mocked himself mentally. _He's Rohirrim—and Thengel-King's son no less—of course he doesn't need to be _taught _how to ride. I'm just a formality. A safeguard. Riding is in his blood. _He didn't mind being a formality though, he thought, smiling his approval as Théoden finished a circuit and gazed up at him, hopeful and ever-eager for his praise.

Théoden hardly noticed his teacher's silent mood, for he soon became lost in his single-minded routine of going through the paces, and the challenge of making every movement flawless and carried out with a sure hand. He enjoyed the feeling more than he could express. However, his exuberance was momentarily checked. He slowed his pony and turned in his saddle to face Feldon, who'd been following at a slow pace, allowing him to go ahead.

"Whoa. Wait up there, young prince. I think we've gone far enough in this direction. We'd better keep circling back within view of the guards."

Although he would have much rather have kept on riding, Théoden knew better than to complain and possibly ruin any hopes of a return trip. They wheeled around, this time with Feldon taking the lead.

Théoden loosened his grip on the reins and trailed behind, allowing his smaller mount a break. He loved her dearly, but what he really needed was _horse_. A big, fierce, stallion, perhaps—like his father's. Well, maybe not a stallion to begin with, but surely even the most malleable, sweet-natured mare in all the stables would be better than a _pony_. Not for the first time, he wondered if he might not be granted his wish for his upcoming birthday.

Théoden barely looked up in time to catch the change in Feldon. First, he was leaning back in the saddle, full of the easy confidence that marked him as a seasoned horseman. Then, suddenly, his back went rigid and he cried out in surprised pain, and just as suddenly his shoulders went slack as he fell sideways. Without a thought, Théoden scrambled from his own mount and hurried to the older man's side. Feldon was conscious, but his face was taut with pain, one hand clutching weakly at his chest where a white-fletched arrow protruded. Théoden landed hard on his knees beside him.

"Feldon…"

Feldon blinked once or twice, realization of what had happened sinking in, as well as a desperation to clear his mind and get his point across before it was to late. "Théoden, you need to listen to me. Get on my horse and ride. Ride like you've never ridden before. _Get to Edoras_."

Théoden listened, but didn't answer, eyes wide with horror and small hands trembling as hovered helplessly over his teacher.

Feldon's soft, patience voice was rough with intensity and pain. "Do. You. Hear. Me?" he pressed, stressing each word. A horror of his own washed over him as he heard hoof beats. "Go!"

Théoden still didn't respond, but he scrambled backwards and onto his feet. He was still trying to get his shaking foot into the much-too-high stirrup when the horses surrounded them.

"Come, Highness, surrender and we won't have to hurt you," a cool voice demanded.

Théoden's eyes darted between the hooded speaker and Feldon. The same speaker dismounted and strode over to tower above the helpless man. A brave, foolish resolve filled him. Under the protection of his cape, his fingers automatically found their way to the dagger at his side. A pitiful weapon, but the nature ingrained him wouldn't let him leave his teacher lying there, vulnerable. Besides, a part of him knew he was already trapped.

And so, his small figure bristling with righteous anger, he charged the hooded figure—who side-stepped easily and caught him by the back of his cloak. Struggling with all his might, he nearly sliced his attacker's wrist before being disarmed. But disarmed he was, and his hands pulled behind his back and secured by a rope. Fingers tangled in his shoulder-length hair, tilting his head back, and he found himself staring into a steely pair of eyes. Still, he strained against his captor's hold, fighting for another moment of freedom. Surely the guards who'd ridden out with him would come soon…

"Stop struggling now and no one else will need to die, young one."

The words paralyzed him. _No one else will need to die? _That meant…

"Yes, they are dead. Don't count on your escort saving you," the man stated, his voice flat and emotionless. "And if you want to be the cause of _his_ death as well," he jerked his head in Feldon's direction. "then keep on fighting, by all means. But it will not get you anywhere."

Feldon was struggling upward, shakily supporting himself with his elbows. It was as futile an endeavor as Théoden's pitiful charge, but even as his body failed, his mind struggled against the thought of lying back down and letting his prince be captured without a struggle. However, that decision was taken from him. Théoden's voice, calling his name, was the last thing he heard before his vision blacked out and he lost the painful battle with gravity.

Théoden watched in anguished helplessness as the hilt of the sword slammed into Feldon's temple, and he slumped, nerveless, to the ground. At Théoden's outraged glare, the hooded man merely began to drag him towards his horse.

"I only said I wouldn't _kill _him if you cooperated. He is not dead." The man's voice was disturbingly casual, as if he was talking about the weather, not another human being's life. "And need I point out that him being alive means he is still capable of _being_ killed?"

The threat was obvious, and effective. Dejectedly glancing over his shoulder at the inanimate form of his teacher, Théoden allowed himself to be towed along by his captor toward the waiting ring of mounted men.

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**There 'tis! LOL, now to see if I can actually get this posted right, without it messing up the formatting or anything... **

**Oh, and if you've got time, please do drop her a review - she loves them much, as I can attest by the excited squealing I so often hear when one pops up in her inbox... -g-**


	22. Impossible Choices

_**See first chapter for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes. **_

**A/N: Hey, (a little tiny bit) late is better than never, right? No, I shall not cliché you to death… Really, thank you all so much—I can't believe I'm over the 200 review mark already! Wow. Boggles teh mind (er…what's left). Anyhow, this chapter really begins what, in my mind, could be considered "Part 2" of the story. Tons left to go, and a pretty rocky trip ahead yet, for our poor ranger (not what you all wanted to hear, I know, but I thought I should warn you… XD)**

**Thank you, Cami, for spending what little free-time you had between doing "real" work to edit this chapter. –many hugs- You're the best, muinthel-nin, without a doubt.**

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**Chapter 22: Impossible Choices**

Thorongil was all too happy to escape from the suffocating atmosphere of unrest that seemed to be looming over Edoras. However, as he rode, he began to realize that perhaps that feeling of apprehension didn't originate in Edoras.

Apparently, either unrest had settled over the entire land, or the feeling was emanating from him. Not a very encouraging realization, to know he couldn't escape so easily. He wasn't about to confront any of his feelings on the subject of Heolstor right now, so he contented himself with shoving those thoughts further back from his consciousness and forcing the set of his shoulders to loosen up. It would do no good if he added a backache to the half-formed headache throbbing behind his eyes, so he tried to make himself relax, at least physically.

The guards at the gate had informed him that the prince had left a message for him, that he should meet him at the old tree. For now all he had to do was focus on reaching the well-known landmark. It wasn't far now, he could see it in the distance. He nudged his horse off the road, scanning the ridge of the hill for any sign of Théoden, and his small mount. He didn't see anything at first—certainly none of the soldiers Thengel had ordered to accompany his son—but as he drew closer he finally saw the darker silhouette beneath the tree.

He urged Seron into a trot as he reached the base of the hill. He'd been right in his first assessment: there was only one figure beneath the tree. But as he called out to the child, he received no response.

"Théoden…?"

Belatedly, he saw the tight-lipped expression of helplessness on the prince's face. And instead of holding the reins, his hands appeared to be behind his back, his shoulders were strained and taut, as if they were tied that way… It only took a split second for his mind to assess and draw a conclusion, but he was still too slow. He was behind by only seconds; however, seconds were all his enemy needed.

**---o—oOo—o---**

As soon as Eothald's funeral was over, Thengel and Morwen retreated gratefully to their rooms.

"Why do I feel as if Eothald's death is only the beginning of our troubles?" Morwen asked softly, the question sounding abrupt, and at the same time the only appropriate kind of statement to break the bleak silence with.

Thengel couldn't contain the spontaneous bitter laugh that rose to his throat. "The beginning of our troubles? I thought Captain Thorongil's 'accident' was the beginning of our troubles. I thought Captain Thorongil's subsequent mock-trial, and Heolstor's betrayal were the following _troubles_. And I thought Eothald's _death _might just be the _end_ of this whole nightmare. Now you talk about 'the beginning' of our troubles like disaster is just around the bend, as if none of what's happened already isn't catastrophic enough!"

Thengel's voice was deep and thick with anger, but Morwen knew better than to dissolve into tears, as was tempting, or return his anger with anger, which was also quite a tempting prospect. She'd learned that although The Royal Temper was nothing to run from, it was certainly nothing to ignore or try to combat with the same force.

Neither of them had been particularly close to Eothald, but his absence was a change, as was Heolstor's betrayal and disappearance, all of which contrasted only a shade more urgent against the backdrop of the attempt on Thorongil's life. Change might have been a natural part of life, but the sheer amount of change, striking so unexpectedly, and carrying with it the threat of even more change, was becoming hard to keep up with.

She knew Thengel was feeling the anxiety of it all more than she—or anyone in Rohan, for that matter—because he was the King. And kings were supposed to _do_ something when problems arose. What that something was, was a little obscure at the moment.

So Morwen stayed quiet until he was done ranting to insert her own opinion, and when she did she kept her voice quiet and calm. "I could be wrong."

The simple, composed statement hit Thengel with visible effect. Her words, and tone contrasted enough with his previous words and tone to stop him in his tracks, and make him feel like a complete idiot. What was he doing arguing, and with her of all people? Why? It was simple: she'd said exactly what he'd been thinking, and he didn't _like_ what he'd been thinking. And he'd hoped he was the only one thinking it.

"No," he said, almost managing to match her calm. "No, you're right. You couldn't be more right. I'm…sorry for losing my temper like that. It's not your fault the world's started collapsing under our feet lately." There was still a trace of bitterness in the last statement, but he controlled it this time.

Morwen walked silently over to where he'd slumped into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, setting a hand on his shoulder. "It's not my fault, and it's not yours either," she said carefully, softly, and yet forcefully.

The sudden knock at the door startled them both. The knock came again, and Morwen recovered first.

"Enter."

"Who now…?" Thengel groaned under his breath. But some of the tension left the king's demeanor, as the person knocking turned out to be Anborn, as opposed to one of the nosey, sympathy-bearing nobles he'd expected.

It might have struck him at once, the way Anborn carried himself—his face downcast, and his strong jaw clenched grimly—but today had been a day full of grimness and downcast faces. His first suspicion that something had gone wrong—_again_—was aroused by the hesitancy in the captain's usually confident and purpose-filled voice.

"Sire, I have some news." Anborn didn't even bother saying "bad" news. That much was rapidly becoming evident. "The Prince's pony, and the horses of the guards that accompanied him, have just returned…without their riders. And we found this in the pony's saddlebag."

Anborn strode forward, handed the folded parchment to Thengel, and immediately backed away, as if offering to leave altogether and give them some privacy.

"No, wait," Thengel halted him, his forehead lined with worry and strain as he unfolded the letter. "Stay."

Anborn nodded, and waited in silent support as the king read. Morwen's face went pale, lips thinning tightly as she read over his shoulder. Thengel finally looked up at Anborn and explained in a choked whisper: "It's Heolstor. He has my son."

**---o—oOo—o---**

"Hold still, for your own good."

Théoden ignored the man behind him, who held him in the saddle before him with an unrelenting iron grip. He twisted to look behind them, at the horse that carried Thorongil. The captain was unconscious, slung face down across the saddle like a sack, arms and legs joined tightly together under the horse by a length of rope to hold him in the position. Théoden squirmed in renewed distress at the sight, digging his elbows into the stomach of his captor.

Mehdal flinched and gritted his teeth, firmly extricating the young prince's elbows from his chest, which was beginning to feel bruised after this latest repeat of struggling. Eru, didn't the child ever give up or tire? "Stop. Moving," he ordered between clenched teeth.

Théoden gave a last defiant squirm, but settled stiffly in his hold. "Why?" he started to ask, trying to sound brave, but the words came out more like a squeak than anything. He tried again, with little more success, his voice faltering with confusion. "Why? You said if I didn't fight you wouldn't kill anyone."

"And I haven't." Mehdal kept the hand that he wasn't using to hold the reins to hold one of Théoden's arms. "The Captain is still alive, just unconscious."

"But you hurt him and…"

"I said nothing about not hurting anyone, young prince." Mehdal paused. "Your father has raised you well," he added, and meant it. Théoden hadn't turned out to be the spoiled, whimpering brat he'd expected. He was a child, and a scared one, but not a selfish, proud coward who cringed at a harsh word. "But you sill have a ways to go when it comes to bargaining; you could have added in a few more details before surrendering," he finished dryly.

Théoden spoke up hopefully, emboldened at the small compliment. "What if I promised not to try and get away, then would you let him go?"

"Quite the offer, Highness. But neither of you is going anywhere."

Théoden fell silent. Although prone to still hope for the best, with all the optimism of a seven-year-old, he recognized the impervious, if not quite untowardly cruel, nature of the man behind him. And he knew he was helpless. And these men had hurt—were hurting—Thorongil. And had possibly killed Feldon. He swallowed stubbornly against the tears that came with that thought.

Their direction from the beginning had been steadily south, and now they were reaching the foothills of the White Mountains. Their path became more slanted, and a few trees interspersed the monotonous terrain, increasing in frequency as they continued their upward progress.

Despite all resolutions to the contrary, Théoden felt himself nodding off as the hours stretched on. As his eyes grew heavier, and he was forced to lean back against Mehdal as the path slanted more steeply, he had fleeting feeling of safety in knowing Thorongil was with him. He knew it was selfish, to be glad someone was captured too, but it _did_ make him feel rather relieved, or at least not quite so afraid, to know he wasn't alone.

**---o—oOo—o---**

Waking wasn't supposed to hurt so much. He was sure of it.

As consciousness loomed closer to the forefront of his awareness, Thorongil tried to wade through his confusion to figure out where he was. His predominant feelings at the moment were pain and disorientation.

He felt like he was drowning, the pressure on his stomach varying between heavy and crushing. There was almost a rhythm to it. A very painful, hard-to-breathe-around rhythm. But he found a moment later that he _could _breathe through the pressure, if barely. So that ruled out drowning.

Dizziness was the next thing to confront him. His head felt inexplicably heavy. Memory was still sluggish, and he couldn't help but feel more confusion as he tried to figure out his situation. Where on Arda was he? Hanging from a ceiling? No…that wasn't right. His ears were ringing as if all his blood was rushing to his head, but he wasn't _quite _upside down. He was at a slightly more gradual slant, and his back ached dully from the strain of arching over… Over _what_? Okay, so maybe it was time to open his eyes and gather a little more information. _Brilliant, Thorongil. You could have thought of that to _begin_ with. _

Cautiously, he cracked both eyes open. Nausea was added to dizziness as his vision was hailed by a tilting, whirling view of the ground, combined with repeated impacts to his stomach. His head swung a few feet higher than the rocky terrain, safe from collision, but his immediate action was still to pull back, wrenching his body upward in surprise. Pain instantly shot through his arms and legs, as rope inhibited the action, and he fell limply back onto what he now realized was a saddle.

Well, he'd figured it out now. Every miserable detail of his predicament.

He watched hooves pass through his peripheral vision, and then clamped his eyes shut tightly against the vertigo and queasiness that was clawing at his stomach. He could pick out the sound of other hooves, too, on either side of him, and ahead. He remembered Théoden, and the look of fear and helplessness on his face, right before he himself had been knocked unconscious. Théoden had been bound, already captured. The prince was probably on one of those horses, he realized, and felt dizzy and nauseated all over again with the implications. He didn't need two guesses as to who had captured them, or why.

It was Heolstor, carrying through with whatever he'd begun. Heolstor, who'd spent _years _in the palace. Heolstor, who knew just how desperate Thengel and Morwen would be to get Théoden back. The one thing that wasn't clear to Thorongil was how _he_ fit into the hostage situation. Why was he alive? Even if Heolstor considered him a prisoner with enough value to bargain with, surely Théoden would be worth even more. So why hadn't they killed him outright?

Thinking, and breathing through the pain at the same time, was becoming difficult. He felt more of his focus shifting as he tried to keep drawing enough air into his lungs. The horse that was bearing him stumbled forward, squeezing his ribs against the unyielding hardness of the saddle until the pain seemed to slice right through him all the way to his spine. As the horse righted itself, he had to work overtime on simply making himself breath again. But the ground was apparently becoming more uneven, because not much further on the horse lurched again, ruining his progress, and once again deflating his diaphragm in an unexpected rush.

For the love of Iluvatar, would it have been so terribly risky to tie him upright in the saddle? Or at the very, very least couldn't they have tied him to a more sure-footed horse? The creature beneath him seemed to sway and stumble more than any horse he'd ever ridden. Of course, he usually made a point of avoiding riding in this particular position.

He tried to tense his sore stomach muscles in anticipation of his mount's next misstep, but when that misstep arrived, he found his bruised stomach no match for the jostle. Or the next. Or the next. After a particularly jarring stumble, he wasn't able to gather oxygen fast enough, and he mercifully blacked out.

**---o—oOo—o---**

"Mehdal has returned successful, with prisoners, my Lord."

Heolstor nodded tersely at the swarthy man. "Tell Mehdal to bring them in here right away."

"Aye, my Lord."

Rador slipped out of the tent and made a direct line through camp towards the awaiting horses. He was in a good mood. Prisoners meant two things. First of all, Heolstor's plans were progressing at a faster rate, which meant there might not be quite so much waiting in his future. And secondly, prisoners meant the possibly of entertainment. He knew Heolstor would never trust him anywhere near a prisoner he intended to use as a hostage, but Rador had already seen that there was more than _one_ prisoner. A hopeful prospect.

All this waiting, without more than a skirmish in months, taking order after order from Heolstor, who always told them to wait some _more_… He knew he wasn't alone in his desire for action, any kind of action, especially if it involved cracking a few straw-heads. The Wild Men around him stirred with the same eager anticipation at the new arrivals, but as he pressed his way towards the horses, he saw that Mehdal was using a firm hand to keep things exactly the way he wanted them.

With a snort of undisguised disgust, Rador sneered up at his brother, who was dismounting and at the same time trying to support the child in front of him.

"What's this? You making _friends _with the little brat during the journey?"

Mehdal barely acknowledged Rador, but when he did it was with mutual contempt. He didn't answer the snide comment, lifting Théoden down from his slumped position in the saddle as the child began to rouse.

"Don't tell me you're getting attached to the prisoners. Won't Heolstor be pleased to hear _that_?" Rador goaded.

"What are Lord Heolstor's orders regarding the prisoners?" Mehdal asked with strained patience as he held onto Théoden's shoulders.

"He says to bring them to him first thing. Here let me take that one—"

Mehdal side-stepped out of Rador's reach, propelling Théoden in front of him. "Until Lord Heolstor directs otherwise you will keep your hands off _both_ prisoners. I won't have all my work getting them here alive be for nothing, and I won't take the blame for any harm that comes to them before Heolstor has _ordered _them to be harmed. Now get out of my way."

Rador scowled, but knew better than to stand in his brother's way, especially when he was in this kind of a mood.

"Have two of the men bring Captain Thorongil," Mehdal motioned with his head in the direction of the horse Thorongil was slung over. "But remember what I said. You had better wait until you know Heolstor's plans for them before you do anything rash."

Captain Thorongil? Rador felt a rush of anger, and satisfaction, at hearing the name. So that was who the other prisoner was. Things might have just gotten a little more entertaining—or they would be soon, if Rador had his way. He strode over to the horse Mehdal had indicated, where two Dunlendings were struggling to lift Thorongil's unconscious weight from the saddle.

"Here, take that rope and tie his hands behind his back," Rador ordered. "And then bring him this way."

The Dunlendings, for all their muscle, struggled to carry dead weight of the tall captain, and ended up mostly dragging him after Rador towards the larger of the two tents in the clearing. Heolstor, Mehdal, and Théoden were waiting inside.

Heolstor was nodding slowly at Mehdal, his gaze roving approvingly from Théoden to Thorongil, as the captain was brought in. "Yes, now we have all the leverage we could ask for. You have done well."

Mehdal inclined his head, his face losing some of its tension. "Thank you, my Lord."

Théoden's best glare was a little hindered by residual sleepiness, but stared undauntedly at Heolstor. "My father will come and get me. He'd do anything for me."

"I was assuming as much, but it is good to hear the words from your own mouth, young prince." Heolstor smiled agreeably. "After all, we are putting a lot of weight on the lengths your parents will go for you. But don't worry, all you have to do—all you _can_ do—is wait. As I'm sure Mehdal here has told you, if you cooperate no harm need come to you."

Théoden's brows drew down angrily. "If you just wanted me, then why did you hurt Thorongil? I _didn't_ fight."

"Well, you have to understand, a man like Captain Thorongil is too powerful an adversary to simply let go, Highness. _But_, if you continue to cooperate, you may still be able help him. Understand?"

Théoden bit back more angry words and jerked his head in a nod. The last thing he wanted to do was go along willingly with these men who, apparently, planned on somehow using him against his family. However, maybe once he woke up, Thorongil would have a plan. Of course he would. He was Captain Thorongil.

Heolstor was pleased to see Théoden become more pliable. "Mehdal, take them to the other tent and make sure they are secured, and guarded at _all times_."

"Yes, my Lord."

**---o—oOo—o---**

Waking still seemed abnormally painful, but the fact that he didn't appear to be either moving or upside down was encouraging. Optimistically, Thorongil opened his eyes. It was dark, but his eyes soon adjusted and he was able to make out the outlines of his surroundings. From the look of all the boxes stacked around, it looked like he was in some kind of storage room. No, not storage room, storage _tent_. He could see a thin line of light marking where the edge of the tent didn't quite meet the ground.

It was a large tent, and he could feel the pressure a wooden support-pole against his back. He shifted, discovering quickly that his arms were tied around the pole, and that moving probably wasn't such a good idea, as his entire chest and stomach felt like it was becoming a bruise, and his back felt permanently bent from where it'd been stretched across the saddle. He also discovered something soft resting against his shoulder. Puzzled, but unable to reach down and touch it, he tentatively rested the side of his face against it, and discovered that it wasn't something, but some_one. _It was a head, a small one, tilted against his shoulder.

Slowly, careful not to move his arms or shoulders, he lifted his head and craned his neck to peer down at his companion. A breeze outside ruffled the tent flap, and he was able to easily make out Théoden's profile, which looked pale in the grayish light. Théoden's mouth was slightly open as he slept, his body listing trustingly against him. Most of the child's weight rested against his right arm, and Thorongil realized he could feel Théoden's hands touching his, as they were tied to the pole as well, just below his own. Unfortunately, their hands were secured far enough apart to make it impossible for him to do more than barely brush the ropes binding the child with his fingertips—he couldn't get to the actual knots.

Thorongil hadn't felt angry when he'd awoken to find himself slung across a horse's saddle. Nor had he been angry when he'd first awoke to find himself in his present circumstance. However, watching Théoden sleep triggered a sudden searing ache of protectiveness. A child. Heolstor would use a child to get what he wanted. And not just any child, but a child Heolstor had known for years, a child he'd sworn an oath to protect, even as he'd sworn an oath to Thengel and Rohan.

Even though he knew, given his helpless situation, any promises of the sort that he made he'd likely be unable to fulfill, Thorongil vowed to himself not to let any harm come to Théoden.

Théoden stirred restlessly against his arm, and Thorongil tried to remain as still as possible, hoping to let him sleep on as long as he could. But Théoden's eyes blinked open, and his head turned against Thorongil's shoulder to look up at his face.

"You're awake." The smile that broke over Théoden's face was first fresh with relief, then clouded with uncertainty. "You're…alright?"

"Yes, I'm alright."

"You wouldn't wake up for a long time." It was spoken almost like an accusation.

"Yes, well… The ride wasn't particularly comfortable. But I think I'll survive. Are you hurt?"

Théoden shook his head once. "No."

Thorongil was confused by the amount of sudden dejection that crept into the child's voice, and peered at him more closely, fearing some hidden injury. "You're sure...they didn't hurt you at all?"

"No," Théoden repeated with the same misery. "I didn't fight. I didn't fight at all. They didn't have any reason to hurt me. I just sat there and didn't even try to get away." The pathetic, belated, and short-lived attempt he'd made with his dagger certainly couldn't be considered a "fight".

Thorongil began to understand, but hardly knew what to say. "Théoden…"

"I should have fought them. At least a little." Despite the conviction in his tone, a question clung to the end of the sentence—a small, tentative _"Shouldn't I have?"_

"No, Théoden, you did the right thing."

"He was going to kill Feldon, like he killed the others, and I didn't know what to do… I wanted to fight them. I would have."

Thorongil closed his eyes briefly at the earnestness of Théoden's words. "I know you would have. You are brave, Théoden."

"I wasn't."

"Listen to me: you _were_ brave. I know you would have been brave enough to fight, but I'm glad you didn't." He cut off Théoden's protest. "There were too many men, you were outnumbered. And, I have no doubt they would have killed Feldon. By _not_ fighting, you probably saved his life."

"But—"

"Théoden, there are times to fight, and times not to. Your father avoids a fight whenever he can—_any_ good soldier does—but not because of cowardice. You wouldn't call your _father _a coward, would you?" Thorongil waited patiently for the predictable, mumbled "_No_". "You put Feldon's life before your own natural desire to fight. That _was _brave. Your father would be proud of you." He could see reluctant hope seeping into Théoden's upturned face. "You believe me, don't you?"

"Yes."

Thorongil smiled. "Good." He wanted to reassure the prince, tell him that everything would be alright, but he didn't know that. What he did know was that such promises would only sound shallow, and Théoden would sense it. He wished there was some way he could prepare Théoden for the worst, _and _keep him optimistic that everything would be well, at the same time. He wished he himself could maintain that mindset.

He'd have to pick and choose his words carefully, prepare some perfect speech that would infuse Théoden with hope and knowledge. _Right, Thorongil, you only _wish _you could come up with a speech like _that. He didn't hold too much confidence in his eloquence. Sure enough, after a full five minutes of thought, all he could think to say was, "You should sleep, Highness. Rest some more."

Théoden was already shifting comfortably against his arm again, settling against his shoulder with such an air of faith that Thorongil felt sure he must have heard some of his unspoken words, at least the ones that told him trust him and sleep without fear.

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**To be continued…**

**I'd just like to mention that, since Cami was in a bit of a rush editing this, any and all mistakes must be duly blamed on her. Juuust kidding. Totally kidding… **

**Reviews are much loved! (Send them as a birthday present…in advance…even though my b-day's not until January… :-P)**


	23. Helpless but to Fight

**_See first chapter for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes. _**

**A/N: Eeep...I almost procrastinated this update right out of existence! Heh. But here 'tis. **

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**Chapter 23: Helpless but to Fight**

The purpose in Thengel's stride was plain to be seen, and stable hands and soldiers parted to the sides as he strode briskly down the center aisle of the stable. The king didn't stop until he spotted the figure he was seeking, moving swiftly around a powerful-looking grey stallion, brushing him with sweeping, determined, but not ungentle, strokes.

"You're leaving." Thengel didn't mean it as a question; it was simply the most direct way to get to the point.

Araedhelm jerked his head in acknowledgment, not faltering in his measured strokes.

"The letter from Heolstor didsay that I was not to send any search parties out. I believe, after that statement, he said something about 'ensuring the well-being of your son by cooperating'."

That stopped Araedhelm, his face instantly flooding with turmoil. "Sire, I…I would never… I mean, I…"

"I know, Lieutenant. I know your soldier's instincts are telling you to go. I know you want find my son, and your captain. I want to find my son so badly it's taking all my self control not to ride out this very instant." There was a subtle change in the king's voice that told Araedhelm to not interrupt and listen closely to what he said next. "But I cannot do that. I cannot even order the soldiers to search. I cannot order you to go." Thengel looked searchingly into Araedhelm's eyes. "In situations like this there are always calculated risks to be considered, but _I _cannot _order _you to go. _That _would be too much of a risk. I can't risk anyone seeing the lie in my eyes if the question arises whether I disobeyed the demand that I not send out a rescue."

Thengel was talking slowly, adding meaningful stress to different words, and Araedhelm began to understand. He let the knowledge show in his expression, but said nothing.

"I cannot order a search party, but if I _did_, I would send a small one, and caution them to be as discreet as possible. I would tell their leader to utilize stealth, and treat the mission more like reconnaissance than rescue mission. I cannot order any such action, but if I could, I would tell them that if they were caught, to say they were sent to bring _back_ search parties, as Heolstor has demanded."

A smile was twitching at the corner of Araedhelm's mouth, and bent his head studiously over his task of saddling his horse to hide it. "Are there any other orders you would give—_if _you were to send out some soldiers to search?"

"Hmm, yes. I would tell their leader to take a couple of Captain Thorongil's men. And, also, to be careful and keep his wits about him, not go rushing headlong into any situations where he's hopelessly outnumbered, and consequentially out_witted_."

Araedhelm gave a soft snort of laughter. "And who is this incompetent leader you've obviously considered sending—if you _could _send anyone, of course. He sounds like a lunatic."

Thengel sighed heavily, as if physically releasing some of the tension boiling inside him. "A _lunatic_? Oh, he is, Lieutenant, he is."

**---o—oOo—o---**

"You don't seem surprised, Captain."

"I'm not."

Heolstor rose from his seat and paced over to where Thorongil knelt in the middle of the tent, a Dunlending on either side. "I have to say I'm a little disappointed to know I didn't manage to fool you, even a little. But it is rather nice not to have to answer all those questions traditionally asked in these situations: Who are you? What do you want with me? None of that from you, I suppose."

"Actually, I still haven't figured out the answer to the latter of those two questions. I hate to disappoint you further by being predictable, but what _do _you want with me?" Thorongil's words were laced with controlled sarcasm.

"I haven't quite decided yet. I didn't realize you'd be accompanying the young prince. But Mehdal was right to bring you here. You're far more valuable to me alive then dead."

"I don't see how."

"Don't you?"

"No, I don't. You have the Prince as a hostage to get whatever it is you're after. But me? I detest you like any loyal subject of the King, and fully intend to hinder you, do my best to destroy your plans, and if I ever have the even smallest opportunity, I'll kill you without hesitation."

Heolstor's smile grew with each threat. "Of course you would."

"Then why am I still alive?"

"Because, despite the threat you present while alive, it seems such a waste to kill you just yet."

"Just yet? Then you do have plans for me."

"Ideas. Theories I'd like to have a positive answer to."

Thorongil raised an eyebrow. "Theories and ideas? I'm beginning to feel like an experiment."

"I'd hardly call you that, Captain. You're not an experiment, you're an adversary I've long wanted to talk to face-to-face without any pretences between us. In my opinion, you're a man of formidable skill and resourcefulness, with either the best or the worst luck I've ever seen."

"Ah, I see," Thorongil smiled. "You want to find out if it's contagious?"

"Contagious? There's an interesting thought." Heolstor smiled too. "Really, though, I'm curious about you. Always have been, since we first met. You're quite a mystery. Somehow, even though you've served Thengel-King of all these years and gained his trust, you've never really said _anything _about who you are. I've always wondered who the real 'Thorongil' is, and all that…material I found in your desk has only made me more curious."

"You're too intelligent a man to seriously expect me just to tell you."

"No…" Heolstor heaved an overly-dramatic sigh of disappointment. "You're obviously hiding something."

"Or maybe I simply don't make a habit of telling my life story to just any traitor who ties me up to annoy me with word-play."

"Oh I'm _annoying _you, am I? I was actually enjoying myself. I just left court, but already the company here is growing tedious. Too bad you're not in the mood to humor me a little before we get down to more serious conversation."

"What do you want with me, Heolstor?" Thorongil demanded bluntly, beginning to feel his patience slip away.

"What do I want with you? What _do _I want with you…?" Heolstor murmured thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on the table he was now standing next to. "I was hoping you might begin to figure that out on your own, but I suppose I have been being vague at best, and now you'll want me to say it more…directly."

"Please _do_," Thorongil agreed blandly.

"Have it your way. I won't deny you the right to know what I'm going to do to you. I guess 'experiment' is an accurate word for it, but I really don't like that word. It sounds so… one-sided and clinical. I want your input very much."

"You're still being vague."

Heolstor chuckled in self-amusement. "You're absolutely right. I'm afraid I've become used to you reading my mind—you always seem to be a step ahead of me, or else just barely a step behind. But you really don't know now, do you? I _have_ managed to surprise you after all. Very well, I shall be explicit." He plucked up a bottle of the table he'd been drumming his fingers on. "Ethalomyn Hasnephar—a concoction all my own. I'm very proud of it. It's proven to be everything I expected of it and more."

Thorongil followed his movement with steely grey eyes. "So you mean to take over my mind as you did Eothald's."

"No, of course not, my dear Captain!" Heolstor exclaimed. "It would bring me no pleasure whatsoever to destroy a mind such as yours. Eothald was weak, and all I wanted was to be able to supplant his own cowardly instincts and thoughts with my own. That was all purely practical."

"Then what am I to you? Entertainment?"

"If you want to use that word… As I said, I seek to satisfy my curiosity. I have time to spare while I wait for Thengel to feel the full impact of my last letter, and then make up his mind."

"What is this 'concoction' of yours?"

"Has anyone ever told you you're a wonderful conversationalist, Captain Thorongil? So full of questions—and all the right ones, too. Well, I shall do my best to satisfy _your _curiosity, as you are likely to help me with mine in more than one way. Ethalomyn Hasnephar is a complicated, potent mixture of different herbs. So far, on the subjects I've had available," Heolstor's eyes shifted pointedly to the Dunlendings at Thorongil's side, "the effect has been _too _potent. I need a stronger mind to test it on."

"I see."

"I knew you'd catch on quickly. Ethalomyn has some very interesting properties, as you'll soon discover. It's intended to help speed up the process of interrogation."

"You mean it's a truth serum," Thorongil stated, in a voice infused with enough boredom to deflate even Heolstor's good mood.

"I can see you don't appreciate your situation yet." Heolstor moved his gaze from the vial in his hand to Thorongil. "But you will."

**---o—oOo—o---**

The horizon and the overwhelming expanse of the mountains reminded Araedhelm of the pressing need to start searching in earnest; the steady sound of the horses behind him reminded him of the pending need to say something to the men that followed him.

There was something in the respectful silence of the five other soldiers that told him they suspected the "real" reason for this excursion was not to bring _back_ search parties. Still, he knew something had to be said.

They were approaching the border of the Westfold now, and Araedhelm called them to a halt.

"We begin searching the foothills, Sir?"

Araedhelm smiled, though the expression could not be seen by the man who had asked, or the other four behind him. "We do. We were sent to retrieve the search parties sent to this area. However, we have yet to find Lieutenant Rehorin. As much as I hesitate to…elaborate on the King's orders, I think it vital we…" Araedhelm trailed off, uncertain of how to phrase what he was trying to subtly imply.

"Go the extra mile, Sir?"

Araedhelm smiled again. "Precisely. Lieutenant Rehorin is an excellent soldier to be sure, but he is not known for his skills with directions. There's no telling where he might be by now if he's lost."

"I think we understand, Sir."

Araedhelm turned in the saddle to scrutinize each man closely. "Do you? There's no telling what we might find in our search. The protection of these trees would be the perfect cover for all kinds of dangerous, desperate men. A small party of men like us, well, if we were to meet up with some of these desperate men…"

"Yes, Sir, I speak for us all when I say we _do _understand. Completely."

"Good."

Araedhelm felt a smug glow of satisfaction, and pride in the men behind him. He'd hand-picked them from Thorongil's Eored, knowing them all to be brave, loyal, and intelligent. They were proving to have plenty of all three traits, and for the first time since Théoden's capture Araedhelm felt his hope become more solid, and less desperate.

He gave orders to each man as to the direction he would take. "…and I will head further west, perhaps stop at Halodawn and ask Lord Mannalic if he has seen any thing of the…Lieutenant Rehorin. Then I will also head towards the mountains. If you find Lieutenant Rehorin—or run into any dangerous men—note their location, and turn back. We will regroup at Halodawn tonight. If I'm not there, wait for me there. Understood?"

"Understood, Sir."

Araedhelm wheeled his horse around and the men spread out. No one asked why—if they should find Lieutenant Rehorin—they were simply to note his location and leave, when Rehorin was the very reason they were continuing the search. Well, perhaps it had something to do with the fact that they all knew perfectly well they weren't going to find Rehorin at all, as Rehorin never existed in the first place. Rehorin was going to stay lost in the mountains for as long as they needed. He was helpful that way.

**---o—oOo—o---**

The cozy, warm thatched house he was shown into was comfortable in such a thoroughly homely way, Araedhelm half expected his wife, Cwén, to enter the room with Wynn trailing behind her. Despite the familiar and inventing aura of Mannalic's house, he felt restless, and eager to be moving on. Sitting next to the fire with a mug of ale he felt too guilty to relax properly, knowing that both his Prince and Captain were probably far from comfortable.

At long last—though he knew it hadn't actually been a long wait at all—Mannalic came rushing into the room. How such a small, fragile-looking man could sustain such a fast pace was beyond Araedhelm's comprehension, but move quickly and constantly Mannalic did. Even when he dropped down into the seat across from him, Mannalic somehow managed to keep one or several of his limbs moving continuously.

"Thank you for meeting with me, Lord Mannalic."

Mannalic smiled a bright smile of genuine pleasure. "But of course, Lieutenant, why wouldn't I see you?"

Araedhelm bit the inside of his bottom lip, a pang of shame hitting him as he thought of all the times he'd rolled his eyes at the mere mention of Mannalic. Everyone was, at best, amused with Mannalic, and at worst, derisive. He'd heard more than one mocking remark made about Mannalic's ability to make up lies—and the most unbelievable lies imaginable. The man himself hardly seemed to notice, or if he did he paid little attention. Mercifully, Halodawn wasn't exactly a widely-visited facet of society.

He'd never been among those to actually make open fun of Mannalic, but looking now at the openly friendly and receptive face across from him, it made Araedhelm flinch to think he'd even listened to the mocking comments. That was the paradox of Mannalic: he annoyed, and at the same time made you feel sorry for him, and even like him. It all came down to his sincerity, perhaps. No one lied _that_ guilelessly.

Focusing back on the question put to him, Araedhelm began tentatively, "Well, I just thought, since nothing's ever really been done about the problems you've reported, you might be somewhat resentful. You'd have every reason to be…"

"Nothing's ever really been done? I don't see what you mean by that. Thengel-King has always sent men to investigate disturbances here—and last time, as you know, he came himself." Mannalic drew his brows together intently in an expression of fierceness, which looked rather comical on his typically friendly face. "However, every time _they _slip away and make me look the fool."

Apparently the vehemently stressed "they" referred in general to the evil creatures that plagued Halodawn with uncanny frequency—supposedly.

"I suppose help has always arrived a little too late," Araedhelm remarked ruefully.

"Aye, it has," Mannalic agreed with heavy grimness. "But at least these evil creatures have mostly left Halodawn alone. Though there was that warg that ate the chickens last year…"

"At least no people have been hurt."

"A fact for which I'm very grateful. It is strange, though, do you not think? We've seen more than our fair share of evil things, but never come to any real harm."

"It is strange…" Araedhelm murmured, wondering to himself whether Halodawn's good fortune was due to the actual lack of most of the perceived threats, or if there really was something going on, and some odd protection surrounded the small village. If even half of Mannalic's fears were real, it was a miracle no one had been hurt or killed. "But this all leads to the question I came here to ask you."

"Yes? If you've traveled all this way, it must be important."

"It is. I must know, have there been any recent…disturbances in this area? Not long ago you reported seeing Crebain and Wild Men. Have you seen anymore since then?"

Mannalic's hands had been wandering here and there ever since he'd sat down, but this latest development—although it didn't seem to catch him entirely by surprise—excited him to a new degree of movement. In fluid gesture of enthusiasm, he scooted forward to poise attentively on the edge of his seat. When he began to talk, and leaned even further forward, Araedhelm braced himself for the wiry man to fall completely off the chair. But Mannalic perched there, his legs braced against the ground as if ready to spring upright at a moments notice, and his face animated with fervor over the topic he was more than prepared to expound on.

"Yes—yes! I have seen more since the King's visit."

"More signs of Wild Men?"

"Signs? More than _that_, Lieutenant. We've _seen _Dunlendings and Crebain on more than one occasion."

"Who is 'we'? You're talking about more than one person."

"Oh yes, a couple of the people in and around Halodawn have seen them, myself included. Boys out in the fields, travelers coming through, men hunting for game…"

Excited, Araedhelm leaned forward in his chair as well. "Where? Where are they usually spotted?"

Mannalic's expressive face clouded in contemplation. "Well… The Wild Men have been seen all over the place. At first, they seemed to frequent an old abandoned barn on the outskirts—the King investigated that personally on his visit, but they'd already cleared out. After that… We still see them, but there's no telling where they'll show up next." His face clouded further for a moment, then parted all together. "But there is one thing I've noticed…"

"Which is?" Araedhelm probed, since Mannalic seemed lost in thought, possibly considering the plausibility of his conclusions.

"It's just—and I may be wrong on this—but it's always seemed to me like the Wild Men were heading west."

"West—towards the mountains. That makes sense." Araedhelm nodded.

"Makes sense in what way?" Mannalic asked, tilting his head to one side in a bird-like gesture. If there was one thing he was profoundly interested in, it was the reason for all the "disturbances" in Halodawn.

"Oh, ah…" Araedhelm backpedaled awkwardly, realizing it was probably for the best that he didn't mention the reason for his sudden interest. He awkwardly attempted to assuage Mannalic's growing curiosity. "I'm trying to figure out where they're going, or coming from. From what you're saying, I gather they most likely have some kind of…hideout in the mountains, possibly nearby."

If not the complete truth, it wasn't a lie, and Mannalic seemed to accept his aversion to going into any detail. He seemed pretty content just to have someone listening to him seriously for once, and probably didn't want to lose his audience at any cost.

"Well… Their traffic does seem to be heading west, or at times east."

"East, towards Edoras…" Araedhelm mused under his breath. "What about the Crebain? You said you still see them as well?"

"Yes, all the time. They frequently pass over here."

"And, their direction?"

"The same, but with more frequency. Back and forth, west and east. They seem consistent, every couple of days I see them again."

Araedhelm's brows furrowed deeply. "Almost as if…"

"As if what?"

"As if they were carrying messages back and forth somewhere, for someone."

Mannalic's nod started out slow, but picked up speed until it was bobbing with enthusiastic agreement. "Yes, it does seem like that, doesn't it? I've never actually gotten close to one, but I have heard they are abnormally clever birds."

"I've heard the same. Clever, with evil inclinations."

"Who would they be carrying messages for?"

"I'm not sure, but I have a good idea." Araedhelm sat back in his chair and took a long draft of the hitherto-untouched mug of ale on the table.

"Who?" Mannalic pried.

"Someone even more clever than I thought."

**---o—oOo—o---**

They were wading through waist-high—or, in Mannalic's case, nearly shoulder-high—grass, now. Mannalic was plowing ahead with the single-minded devotion of a hunting dog on the scent of its prey. Araedhelm couldn't help but instantly think of a terrier.

"Here, here it is," Mannalic said, out of breath, but loosing none of his precise way with words.

Araedhelm emerged into the small clearing that surrounded the barn. It was much overgrown, but to a lesser extent than the field behind them, and showed the signs of having been recently trampled.

Mannalic was watching him with an overwhelming amount of expectancy, as if he expected him to perform some kind of miracle, or work some kind of magic.

Well, he had come here placing no small amount of confidence in himself, but now…. Now where to begin? In the back of his mind he'd been pondering the idea that he might find a trail to follow, even though no obvious signs had been found by Mannalic or any of the villagers. He was assuming they'd covered every inch of this place. Certainly Mannalic would have, and Thengel-King had been here as well.

Trying to block out the feeling of Mannalic's gaze, locked intently on his back, he attempted to rouse his lagging confidence. After all, how many times had he watched Thorongil as he carefully uncovered a trail—usually where he'd seen nothing before? With utmost patience, Thorongil had shown him, on more than one occasion, how to catch the subtle signs of a creature's passage, or that of another human.

Granted, his Captain had seemingly infinite fortitude and knowledge in the matter, and he comparatively none, but Araedhelm liked to think that some minimal tracking skills had rubbed off on him. He'd never been too proud of his tracking skills as rusty as they were, but surely after all these years, he'd gained _something_ by osmosis, at least. In any case, if he took half Thorongil's painstaking care he'd be able to follow the trail left behind by a band of _Dunlendings_. Right? His inner voice didn't sound so confident. Actually, it sounded downright mocking. _Right. _

"Would you like to go inside, Lieutenant?" Mannalic queried, bouncing lightly on the tips of his toes, a gesture more of habit than impatience, although he did look eager. Then again, that seemed to be his default expression as well.

Araedhelm momentarily stowed his uneasy thoughts of his own deficiencies of talent. If he and his Captain survived this whole ordeal he'd have to ask Thorongil for some lessons.

"Yes, let's take a look."

Araedhelm scanned the room blindly, impatiently, as his pupils took their time adjusting to the dim interior. He soon became aware of the sunlight leaking through the decaying boards that composed the walls, as well as the even larger gaps in the roof, providing more illumination.

Mannalic hovered near the door, his attention divided between Araedhelm and their surroundings. "You are skilled in the art of tracking?" he asked, hopefully.

"Somewhat." Araedhelm didn't completely banish the self-doubt from his tone, or from his unconfident movements. The best he could do, with Mannalic's scrutiny steadily upon him, was to act like he knew what he was doing. Who knows, maybe pretending was the first step to actually figuring things out.

Sinking down on his haunches, he examined the uneven dirt floor. Strewn everywhere was straw…and feathers. Black feathers.

"Crebain," Mannalic confirmed. "Of that I am certain. I have seen them around here."

Araedhelm nodded. Guesses as to the reason for the birds' presence only brought disturbing answers, and the proof of the feathers, although confirming, didn't accomplish much else _but_ confirm suspicions at the moment. He let the feather he'd picked up drift back to earth. "So, you've already searched this place thoroughly, then?"

Mannalic bit his lip, cringing with embarrassment and regret. "Yes… I have. And so, I'm afraid, have most of the villagers."

Disappointed, but not terribly surprised, Araedhelm tried to put the man a little more at ease. If Mannalic didn't quit fluttering around behind him, he wasn't going to be able to focus at all. "Did you find anything?"

With something to put his intelligent, albeit flighty, mind to, Mannalic's fluttering did become less pronounced. But he still looked abjectly penitent. "No, not much at all. No one in Halodawn has ever had much experience with discerning difficult trails. All we could see on the surface," he gestured towards the feathers, "was these."

Araedhelm drew a long breath of the musty air. "Well, I can't say I've had too much by way of tracking experience…or that I can see much else myself." He glanced dismally around at the trampled dirt-packed floor. "At least not in here."

It would have been easy to give in to temptation and get angry with Mannalic for allowing all the nosy villagers to come tramping around, obliterating all signs. But really, who was he to be _angry _with any of them? After all, Halodawn, and Mannalic specifically, had been ridiculed for their claims. Now that those claims were very possibly true, he had no right to blame them for doing all the trampling of evidence they wanted. They'd been curious, and no one else had cared overly much what they did about "their" problem.

He should be thanking the gods Mannalic was _helping _him at all. Besides, now that he thought about it, he realized there might not have been that many people inside. For all he knew, he might have been looking right at the Dunlendings' footprints, and not been able to differentiate them from those of anyone who'd been to the building since.

"Come, there's still the outdoors." Mannalic's supply of enthusiasm showed no bounds yet. "You may find some clearer indications there. I believe fewer people have looked there. You may find a lead there."

"Aye, maybe." Araedhelm stepped out the door ahead of Mannalic, who stepped aside deferentially.

"Quite frankly, I haven't a clue what to look for. I'll just watch from here and keep out of the way."

_Quite frankly, I haven't much of a clue myself. _But Araedhelm strode in the sunlight with more confidence than he felt.

The area around the door was much too disturbed for there to be any hope of his unpracticed eyes spotting anything, but as he cautiously skirted the building he could see that the general throngs hadn't wandered so heavily here. That left the ground perfectly untouched. Perfectly. He was back on his haunches, examining every inch of ground, until his legs began to ache from staying in the awkward position. But at the back of the barn signs of any creature—human or animal—seemed to have vanished.

What he'd seen on the south side hadn't exactly been encouraging—all the footprints had been far too small to be those of Dunlendings—but at least there'd been _something_. And this was the west side, the side he'd been the most hopeful about. Mannalic had said they traveled from east to west, or vice versa. With the front of the barn facing the east, and no chance of finding anything there… _Gods, man, what did you expect? A sign from the above? An arrow pointing out the direction? _Nothing so obvious, but what about some nice, large, boot prints, or a heavily trampled swath cutting through the fields. Just to get him started. That didn't seem like too much to ask.

He rubbed his sore eyes, and continued his uncomfortable, hunched over, snail's pace examination of the ground. The grass was taller behind the barn, and apparently even the most conscientious villagers hadn't made it this far. He was grateful for that much, at least. But is his patience only went so far, and although he'd willed himself to tamp down his impatience for a while, all this looking and finding nothing was testing his resolution. He was contemplating the considerable merits of rushing brashly to search the mountains in an impulsive style much more his own, when he finally found something.

It wasn't _exactly_ a clear message from above, but it was sign. Although the footprints were easily apparent once noticed, even to his novice eye, they were still far fainter than he'd expected. The image of Dunlendings, sneaking out on tiptoe, was ludicrous. But, if he wasn't mistaken, the footprints that wrapped around the north corner of the barn, and then continued in a western direction, came from more than one man, traveling in a group.

He bent closer to examine the tracks. Well, if the Dunlendings hadn't been tip-toeing around, they'd certainly been being careful. That struck him as strange, and for a moment he felt his hopes plummet as he considered again the possibility of it simply being more ambitious villagers, outdoing everyone with their thoroughness. _And walking single file... _he mused. For the tracks were nearly laid out single file. He could see, though, that there were at least three, and probably more, sets of footprints overlapping each other.

Araedhelm followed the trail further, and the apparent attempts at stealth became more and more careless, and much easier to read. He raised his estimate to at least five men. _Either that, or I am now stalking a ten-legged monster. _Soon, he was able to follow the footprints with ease, as the Wild Men had spread out to walking two abreast.

A tap on the shoulder nearly made him yelp in surprise. He swallowed the exclamation quickly as he became aware of a sheepish Mannalic standing behind him. "Oh…Lord Mannalic. I didn't hear you come up."

"I can see you are deep in concentration. You have found a trail to follow?"

"Yes, I think so."

"I wouldn't have interrupted you, only I was thinking, perhaps you would like to retrieve your horse and supplies before you leave?"

"Yes…yes, of course." Araedhelm instantly felt dense for not having remembered that himself, but Mannalic just smiled understandingly and motioned for him to lead the way back towards Halodawn.

Mannalic saw him off—Araedhelm clearly remembered the small man waving him off with calls of farewell, wishing him well. He also remembered, with a twinge of guilt, how preoccupied and how unresponsive he'd been to the man who'd given his help so ungrudgingly.

All this he recalled with _hindsight_, unfortunately. As the trail grew more obvious and easy to read, he had enough time to properly flinch and cringe over the rudeness of his behavior. Apologies would definitely be in order when all this was resolved. But for now the end of the trail was the one and only place he wanted to be.

* * *

**To be continued...**

Never fear, Thorongil, Araedhelm the Lunatic is on your trail. :-P


	24. Futility

**_See chapter one for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes. _**

**Sorry for the last-minute post, I'd heard alerts were down, so I was waiting for them to start trickling back in. Hopefully the alert for this'll get to everyone. ;-)**

* * *

**Chapter 24: Futility**

Waiting always paid off. Heolstor knew it, knew it well, but he still always reveled in the emotion of the moment. That feeling when all his careful planning started paying off. Right now, at the moment, he might not be experiencing the exact rewards he'd anticipated, but all things considered things were coming along quite nicely.

He had the prince, _and_ he had Thorongil. He was actually ahead of the game. Not that he was going to get cocky or anything. Only novices made the mistake of being overconfident. He snickered a little inwardly, self-derisively. Those thoughts were exactly the kind of arrogant, premature kind he was trying to avoid. No more of that. He would stick to business: focus on the moment, the objective, the goal, not his own accomplishments. After he'd achieved it all, then he could gloat properly.

Besides, he had plenty to keep him entertained while he waited.

"Mehdal."

Instantly, his lieutenant was brought to alertness from where he'd been dozing in the far corner of the tent. "Yes, my Lord?"

"Bring Captain Thorongil to me."

Mehdal pulled himself to his feet. "Immediately, my Lord."

When Mehdal reentered with Thorongil in front of him, and a precautionary Dunlending behind him, Heolstor was thrumming with anticipation. Even apart from the plans he had, every conversation with the captain was different, challenging, and fascinating. Here was one man he could never satisfactorily claim to have fooled with his charade. Thorongil had never liked him, and yet he'd never stooped to petty words of useless anger, even after Heolstor had openly shown his true colors. Thorongil was self-restrained. An admirable opponent.

"I have to say, this new arrangement—getting to have these delightful conversations on more regular basis—is quite pleasant," Heolstor commented by way of greeting.

Thorongil only raised a mocking eyebrow. They were steadily passing the point where he found witty repartee entertaining, and he knew Heolstor had more serious plans for him. Instead, he sought to gather whatever information he could in a completely straightforward manner, hoping Heolstor might trip over his own pride in his desire to have someone listen to his plans. Although escape looked impossible now, if he was ever able to get away any information he could gather would be invaluable. Even apart from that, for his own peace of mind, he asked, with eyes locked searchingly on Heolstor, "Will you really let the prince live, if you succeed?"

Heolstor laughed incredulously. "You mean you haven't figured it out?" Another surprised chuckle.

"Just tell me," Thorongil said darkly. "Will you harm him? Would you…kill him?"

"Harm him? No, I don't think so. But that is the beauty of situations like this. His Majesty the King can have absolutely no idea how his son is really being treated. I could kill him, and go right on demanding Thengel-King's cooperation. But no, I don't think I will kill him. And as for harming…well, I don't think so, not unless he makes it necessary."

"Harming children is never necessary," Thorongil murmured, his expression darker still. "And if you do—"

"Yes, I know, his loyal and faithful bodyguard will kill the man who dared to touch a hair of said Prince's head, in the most painful and imaginative of ways. Or would you just wring his neck?" Heolstor smiled pleasantly, and Thorongil fell silent, averting his gaze to ground. "Your first outburst yet. You've actually been quite restrained, in my opinion."

"Thank you."

"Calm and collected again—such a master of your emotions. I admire that about you, Captain. Now, if you could just drop some of that outstanding Sense of Honor of yours, you could really get somewhere in the world…"

"I thought we'd already passed this point," Thorongil noted wryly.

"This point?"

"The point where you vainly attempt to convince me joining _you _would be in my best interests. I've already given you my answer."

"Apologies. Of course you can't be swayed. How futile of me."

"Quite."

"Then I'm afraid we must progress to the next stage, a stage I'd hoped to never arrive at. After this, I fear you will only ever regard me as quite…barbaric."

"You leave yourself wide open with that remark," Thorongil stated, calmly. These were usually the kind of remarks he could aim at brainless orcs to whip them up into a fury in a matter of seconds. He'd never really had to stop and gather a repertoire of such comebacks; suicidal retorts always seemed to instantly spring to his mind when faced with psychopaths. Or maybe that was just something ingrained in him by his brothers? Or perhaps Legolas?

Heolstor was in a good mood, though, and seemed to find his defiance endlessly amusing. Far from reassuring, Thorongil recognized the signs of a man who was first of all in complete control, and, secondly, had every reason to think that his opponent wouldn't be defiant for long. Thorongil was beginning to think that Heolstor's best moods would only ever mean the worst things for _him_.

"I see. So you're going to deprive me of our conversations now, and simply glare at me." Heolstor sighed, picking up a vial filled with an amber colored liquid that Thorongil recognized with an inward flinch of foreboding. "I told you a little about this during our last conversation. I thought I might give you some time to contemplate its merits. I had thought you might see joining me as a better alternative."

"I believed you thought more of me than to assume I'd give up so easily."

"Oh, I know your," Heolstor rolled his eyes, and pronounced the accolade with unveiled mockery, "Sense of Honor would never permit such treachery. _Never _at least without a token attempt at suffering for your loyalties. But I did think you might see the sense of guarding all that knowledge in your mind, even if in order to do so you might have to join with a _cowardly traitor _like myself. Do you possess any knowledge you might like to keep secret? I wouldn't, of course, start out by having you prove your willingness to betray by ordering you to hold a knife to your prince's throat, or anything so melodramatic…"

"Now you're just playing with me," Thorongil muttered jadedly, only half listening. "Poison me. Try to take control of my mind. But get on with whatever you're going to do."

"If you're so anxious…very well, I shall. But I do wonder, Captain, can you really afford to have everything in that brain of yours—your entire past, the knowledge of who you really are—exposed to a man like me? I think my curiosity will soon be satisfied."

Heolstor's knowing smirk planted a seed of fear in Thorongil's heart that he refused to show on his face. _…your entire past, the knowledge of who you really are—exposed to a man like me?_ He clenched his teeth at the thought. Two burning questions thrummed anxiously inside him now. Exactly who _did _Heolstor suspect him to be? And, even more vitally important to the moment, did this Ethalomyn Hasnephar really work?

Heolstor was uncorking the vial, setting the stopper on the table, and picking up a goblet. The chalice was almost ridiculously opulent-looking in contrast to their current surroundings: slender, made entirely of silver, with an ornate, vine-like pattern wrapped around the stem. Thorongil's detached side—the one that _wasn't _filled with panic and the realization that he'd soon be drinking an unknown poison—noticed that it was quite a beautiful peace of craftsmanship, and almost elven in its design.

Emptying half the amber liquid from the vial into the goblet, Heolstor set it back in the wooden rack next to several other ominous-looking glass containers. Thorongil's gaze lingered on the table, feeling himself pulled back in time to a much happier time. The contents on the table—various vials lined on wooden racks, neatly arranged piles of herbs, wooden mugs, goblets, a small mortar and pestle, lethal-looking paring knives—all of them held sentimental familiarity. All of them reminded him of home. Of Rivendell. Of Elrond.

It seemed strange to be dreading the very objects he'd seen set out on his Adar's table so many times. Of course, the herbs and medicines lined out so orderly on the Lord of Rivendell's table had been meant for healing and the easing of pain, not the causing of it.

The same detached part of Thorongil that had noticed the goblet's beauty now began to clinically categorize and name some of the herbs on Heolstor's table. Some of the plants were already ground into powder, or chopped too finely for him to recognize with sight alone, but some he could identify. Apparently Heolstor knew what he was doing, which didn't surprise him, but definitely didn't hearten him considering his position. Some of the plants were common. Many of them were not. Several of them could be found only in the south, and he knew them only by illustrations he'd seen in books in Rivendell. Few of the herbs' possible uses were reassuring.

"Admiring my collection, I see."

"Admiring? Yes. Coveting? No."

"Oh, but many of these can be used for good or evil. As a healer, you know that." Heolstor poured wine into the goblet in his hand, as well as an identical one on the table.

"I'm perfectly aware of the good properties of some 'poisons', but I very highly doubt you've ever had the inclination to use Monkshood for _aching_ _joints_," Thorongil pounced the words dryly, unable to keep the disgust for this man from his voice. "How many people have you used it to kill? Perhaps you even used it on your father—it is a fast-working poison." The casually inserted accusation finally caught Heolstor by surprise. "You killed your own father, didn't you?"

Heolstor snorted softly, lifting his chin arrogantly. "It's not something I'm _ashamed_ of. As a matter of fact, I think that particular piece of work was quite a masterpiece. Not the poisoning part, that was easy—to satiate your curiously, I used a simple dose of cyanide, actually. He never suspected a thing. No, the challenging part was convincing the healers to leave the body alone and not start looking into details."

Thorongil felt speechless, unable to come up with words that were both calm and conveyed his revulsion for Heolstor.

Swirling the liquid in the two glasses he held, Heolstor came to stand directly in front of him, so they were face-to-face. "Untie him." Heolstor didn't glance aside at Mehdal, even when he unquestioningly cut Thorongil's bonds. "I won't insult you by listing the reasons why it would be foolish for you to try to escape. Nor will I insult you by listing the reasons it would be foolish to refuse to drink this." He held out one of the chalices.

Rubbing his wrists and flexing his fingers, Thorongil only looked at the proffered drugged wine for a few moments' hesitation before accepting it and taking a long, composed drink. "Fast working?"

Heolstor took a drink of his own wine. "Moderately. At least, it seemed to work relatively quickly on my former…subjects. Of course, not having as iron a will as I'm certain you possess, I'm sure they succumbed much more easily." He laughed. "Don't look so hopeful. I said 'succumbed' just now, but there's no chance of you somehow _resisting_ it. No, I think you'll feel the effects soon enough, and even your most noble intentions of withstanding won't help you."

Thorongil's only response was to take another drink, holding the liquid on his tongue, trying to make himself enjoy the wine, which was actually very good. Not that he'd expected Heolstor to be drinking anything else.

"Do you like it?" Heolstor asked, slipping effortlessly from the topic of poison to fine wines. "It's from the King's own cellar."

Thorongil gave a small nod and grunt of appreciation, feeling extremely the bizarreness of his current situation: sipping poisoned wine, and causally discussing the merits of both wine and poison with the man who'd done the poisoning, and acting for all the world as if it was all perfectly normal. But really, what choice did he have? Even if he could escape with his own life, there wasn't much opportunity to get Théoden away with him. Fighting taking the poison would have proven nothing, and Heolstor knew it perfectly well.

Something about the way Heolstor seemed to gauge him perfectly irritated him. Heolstor, in general, irritated him—_more _than irritated him. Their opinions of each other seemed to be a mutual, and odd, hating-respecting-distrusting-admiring complex. Heolstor couldn't seem to quite wrap his mind around the reasons for all of Thorongil's morals and "weak" scruples, while Thorongil could hardly wrap his mind around Heolstor's apparent lack of any conscience at all.

As interesting as the convoluted train of thought was, Thorongil was forced to drop it as a feeling of vertigo crept over him. It was a different kind of dizziness than he ever recalled feeling before. He felt tired, rather complacent, even while his head began to swim nauseatingly. He didn't remember falling, but a shift in his wavering vision left him aware, for a brief moment, that he was on his knees now, and breathing heavily. He tried to focus on the sound of his gasping breaths, and make them deeper, a little less frantic, but after one generous inhalation pain stabbed through his chest and he felt his tenuous grasp on control slide away again.

The nausea did lessen, though, after a minute or two. Everything seemed to be lessening. His vision, his hearing… Not that he particularly cared or felt any of it. The only thing that rivaled the numbness stealing over him was the iciness that was gradually grabbing him by the core, spreading outward until his limbs felt impossibly heavy and unresponsive. Vaguely, he wondered if his position had degenerated from kneeling to lying on the floor. He could tell his eyes were still open, because his vision hadn't completely blacked out, but everything was so blurry and grey…

"Hmm, well. I guess it works, even on the Great Captain Thorongil."

The amused voice continued talking at some length, though he wasn't certain how long, because time quickly became more elusive than anything. He did feel a faint rousing of panic when he realized that he himself was saying something…or at least he had the impression he was saying something. But by that point he only barely qualified as conscious, and the little that he was aware of suddenly didn't matter as much he knew it should. The fact that he was talking probably should have mattered, but the very fact that it should have mattered didn't matter.

Oddly enough, even after a long time—or what _felt _like a long time—he still didn't pass out, though on more than one occasion he though for sure he would. He wished he would. He was confused, and the numbness was beginning to fill him with a weary, hollow ache.

Finally, some of the lack of sensation was disrupted by the insistent feel of hands grabbing his arms, hauling him bodily up, and dragging him somewhere. The brightness of sunlight overloaded his bleary vision, and then—with a transitory rush of gratitude—he blacked out.

**---o—oOo—o---**

Théoden tried hard to be brave, and not panic, but Thorongil had been gone for a long time. A very long time. Every time he managed to slow his racing heart a fraction, the folds of the tent would open. A man with black hair, and eyebrows that looked perpetually arched in a malevolent expression, would enter periodically. The cruel-looking man never hurt him, just eyed him and checked his bonds roughly before exiting again. But he made Théoden shudder. The man looked very much liked he'd _like _to hurt him, but something was holding him back. He hoped whatever it was that restrained him at least held until Thorongil got back. Thorongil would know what to do to keep him safe.

When Feldon had been shot, and he'd been captured, Théoden had felt so afraid, so alone. Then, when he'd seen Thorongil riding over that hill, he'd felt a flood of assurance. _Stupid, stupid, stupid… _he muttered to himself, feeling how selfish it was to want Thorongil to be in this mess with him. They might both get killed. Like Feldon. He shouldn't have felt glad to see Thorongil. He shouldn't feel glad to have Thorongil with him now. That just meant that they were both in big trouble.

The unknowingness of it all was terrifying, and despite his calm, almost gentle, treatment, Mehdal had scared him, though maybe not so much as the threatening man who kept coming to check on him. He'd only seen Mehdal once more after their journey, when he'd come in and taken Thorongil away. The captain had complied with the brusque order to "get up", following without argument, and giving him a hasty glance of reassurance as he left. And he'd felt reassured. He _had_, hours ago. But Thorongil had never come back. If they'd taken him away just to talk with him, why wasn't he back yet?

He tried to sleep, and not to worry. He knew Thorongil wouldn't want him to worry. But he _couldn't _sleep, and he _did _worry. And his arms were beginning to cramp from being forced awkwardly behind his back for so many hours, and the ropes, although relatively loose at first, got pulled a little tighter every time the black-haired man checked to make sure they were secure. He wiggled his fingers, clenching them gingerly into fists, trying to get the blood to flow more freely.

_Don't let them have killed him. Please let him come back soon..._

The silent plea had gone through his head some hundred times before it was finally answered. Thorongil had not been killed, but he did appear to be somewhat the worse for wear. Half supported by Mehdal on one side, and a Dunlending on the other, Thorongil staggered through the opening to collapse wearily next to him. Silently—not looking directly at either of the prisoners—Mehdal re-secured Thorongil firmly and stalked out of the tent, the Dunlending following in his wake.

"Thorongil?" Théoden spoke up urgently, not daring to touch him without knowing how and where they'd hurt him.

Thorongil's head turned from where it had been resting against the pole at their backs. He seemed mildly surprised to see Théoden there, as if he was just becoming aware of his new surroundings. The light was dim at best, but Théoden could see some of the tension melt from his face.

"Théoden…" He drew a long, labored breath, physically gathering his spent strength. "They haven't hurt you, have they?"

Théoden tried to hide the quaver in his voice, but knew he wasn't very successful the moment the small-sounding "No" was out of his mouth. He was just so relieved Thorongil was alive and back with him, and apparently not too badly hurt. Or at least he hoped he wasn't. "Did they hurt you?" he asked in turn, proud when it came out sounding less strangled.

Théoden could feel a familiar "adult" kind of weariness emanating from Thorongil that he'd seen before in his father several times after he'd just come home from a long journey, or after an extensive day in court, making some "trying" decisions, as he would say. Théoden had never felt as little and helpless as then, wishing he could make his father smile and quit looking so worried and sad. Sometimes all it took was hug, and Théoden could see the change he wanted take place. Other times, Morwen would shoo him off to bed, and he would lie there, listening to the sound of their voices murmuring faintly through the door, as they talked late into the night after they thought he'd fallen asleep.

Thorongil looked like he was the kind of tired that would take more than a hug to fix. Not that he didn't look like he could use a hug. But they were both tied up, so he couldn't do that.

"You were gone a long time," he tried again, wishing Thorongil would say _something_.

"It's alright, _tithen-pen_," Thorongil said softly, unconsciously echoing the same words of comfort his own Adar had so often used to reassure him during nightmares, slipping easily into the Sindarin tongue.

"_Tithen-pen_?" Théoden stumbled over the foreign words. "What does that mean?"

Thorongil smiled faintly in the dark, realizing his diversion into the past, and subsequently another language. "It means 'little one'—my father used to call me that."

Any thoughts Théoden had had about complaining over being called "little one" evaporated upon hearing the last of his explanation. "He called you that when you were my age?"

Thorongil gave a soft snort of amusement. "Yes… And he still does. So do my brothers, for that matter."

"But you're not little anymore."

"Maybe you could inform them of that." Another fond sound of exasperated amusement responded to the statement.

"I'd like to meet your family," Théoden said, eagerly.

"I think they'd like to meet you, too."

"Where do they live? Where is _your_ home?"

"A very long ways away, I'm afraid."

The wistfulness in that statement would have been easy enough for anyone to sense. "You miss your home."

"Yes. It's a very beautiful place."

"When you go there to visit, will you take me there, to meet your family?"

"I'd like to, but I don't know how soon I'll be returning, and I'm afraid it really is a very long ways for you to be traveling just yet."

Only Thorongil could say something, implying he was too young to go somewhere or do something, and not make him feel _little_ or useless. "But someday?"

"Perhaps, someday." Thorongil shifted closer to him, offering the comfort of his shoulder to lean on. "Rest some more now, _tithen-pen_."

Théoden smiled, glad to have the nickname. "Thorongil?" he asked, too sleepily to care it came out sounding less manly than he would have liked.

"Hmm?"

"Did they hurt you?"

"Only a little. But I am well now."

"Thorongil?"

"Yes?"

"What will they do to us?"

"I won't let them do anything to you, little one. Sleep."

And, safe in the assurances that Thorongil would keep him safe, he was finally able to do just that.

**---o—oOo—o---**

Normally, Araedhelm would have enjoyed a long trek like this through pristine woods, so lonely and untouched by human hands. Everything was so quiet, beautiful, peaceful. _Aye, and I'm following a deer-trail, instead of a horde of Wild Men... _Wishful thinking could only go so far when you were on a mission where the life of your prince was quite possibly in your hands—not to mention relying heavily upon your tracking skills.

Thankfully, his tracking skills weren't being too heavily relied-upon anymore. The trail was easy to follow. So easy, in fact, that the road was becoming far less of a challenge, and more a tedium. His horse was tired, and he was tired, and dusk was setting in.

Open fields, and other level terrain, were looking more appealing by the minute. Although the view was beautiful, the strain on his back was unrelenting as he rode up the steadily steeper slant the path was taking, and his legs were getting sore from gripping the saddle to maintain his seat.

The path might have been even more difficult, and likely unsafe to try on horseback, but the Dunlendigns had climbed the mountain in a slightly criss-crossing pattern, creating a number of switchbacks as they moved further up into the mountains. A very logical, well-chosen path. Too logically plotted out for a band of rampaging Dunlendings, in Araedhelm's opinion.

He was beginning to form some speculations as to the quarry he was tracking down. There were too many things that didn't fit well with what he'd heard and witnessed of Dunlending disposition. At the beginning of this trek—back at the barn, where he'd had to work so hard to find a sign of their passage—their trail had been made as inconspicuous as possible. And now, instead of rampaging uphill and expending strength in headlong rush, the Dunlendings appeared to have conserved their energy and picked their way out rationally. Or, rather, whoever had been leading this little outfit had been picking out a rational path.

Apparently Heolstor didn't trust his allies to do the job alone. Doubtless, he'd sent one of his men to be the brains of the outfit. As far-from-encouraging as that knowledge was, at least it was more confirmation he was on the right track.

He had to smile wryly at the thought of the poor man who'd been charged with the keeping of some half-dozen unruly Dunlendings. By the way the trail had evolved from organized to complete carelessness, it was evident his control was less then perfect. Then the thought of the band that had waylaid him on the way to Minas Tirith came to him, and he lost any feelings of pity for such a man.

Rounding another bend in the faintly marked-out switchback, Araedhelm groaned in pleasure as the ground beneath him became less vertical, allowing him to relieve some of the tension on his back. He halted his mount, taking a moment to savor the feel of ceased motion.

"Well Rynawl, my old friend, do think you have one more hour of travel left in you?" The dappled stallion hung his head a fraction lower, letting out tired snort of protest, even while responding to Araedhelm's appreciative stroking of his neck. When Araedhelm's soothing rubbing ended in a decisive pat, Rynawl trudged on stalwartly.

The foothill they were climbing sloped even more sharply as they drew nearer to the top. Horse and rider pushed on despite their fatigue, knowing that the top—although it felt like it was constantly receding, even as they advanced—had to come sooner or later, and if they could just reach it there might be something over the rise to reward them. That was what Araedhelm kept telling himself, but he hardly expected to really see anything out of the ordinary.

The ground leveled out beneath Rynawl's hooves as they reached the summit: a long ridge that dropped much more gradually on the other side into a valley between the foothills and the Ered Nimrais. Shrubs and evergreens inhibited his view until he'd finally conquered the ridge, then the panorama that met his vision was spectacular. Who knew the simple compilation of thousands of trees could be so breathtaking? Especially to his eyes, used as they were to the more barren but singular beauty of the plains of Rohan, it struck him even more powerfully than it might have otherwise. Unfortunately, in addition to breathtaking, some of the other adjectives that sprang to Araedhelm's mind were overwhelming, futile, and vast. Too vast.

How far these tracks would lead him he hadn't a clue, but he had to face some of the fears hammering away at his subconscious. What if these Dunlendings weren't heading towards Heolstor's hideout—wherever it was—but an entirely different place? What if they weren't connected with Heolstor at all? Maybe he was jumping to too many conclusions. They could easily be facing an entirely different problem—that of another Dunlending uprising. He preferred to turn a blind eye to the fact that this could all be mere casual coincidence, but he had to acknowledge the fact. Each mile might be bringing him closer to finding the prince and Thorongil, or it might be bringing him even further away.

But he couldn't afford to turn back now; his only option lay in blindly forging ahead.

* * *

**To be continued...**

Ontime (realtively speaking), and doesn't end on a cliffy (also relatively speaking)--double points for me! -g-


	25. The Essence of Time

**_See first chapter for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes. _**

**A/N: It's not midnight (here) yet, so technically I'm on time...whew, livin' on the edge, here. :-)**

* * *

**Chapter 25: The Essence of Time **

"Captain, Captain…" Heolstor reprimand. "The whole point of my little concoction was, first of all, to enable me to place ideas into other people's heads, and secondly, to supply me with _answers._" He was pacing persistently in front of Thorongil, who knelt with his arms tied behind his back in the middle of the tent, with the ever-present Mehdal behind him. "Now _you_, contrary to plans, are as yet entirely unaffected by any of my…suggestions, and compounding that, you've only aroused my curiosity more. Couldn't you bring yourself to be a little less vague?"

Between the encroaching pain and confusion, Thorongil could hardly find his voice to reply with his usual sarcasm.

Heolstor seemed to read the hint of fear that lurked in his eyes, as well. "Oh yes, you talked. Not as much, or as clearly, as I'd hoped you would, but you did talk. And you'll talk some more. Before you know it, you'll be telling me your whole life's story."

Thorongil tried to keep the shivers that were wracking him from showing. He really did feel cold: inexplicably, frozen-to-the-core, _cold_; but he also felt the chill of fear settling into his bones, and more insidiously into his mind. He didn't deny it. But he'd just as soon _Heolstor_ didn't see it. It was probably a futile action, however, since the anticipation rolling off Heolstor was nearly tangible.

The muted numbness he'd experienced some hours before had been one of the most unpleasant feelings he'd ever experienced. Why it had felt worse than actual pain was inexplicable, but it had. Maybe being utterly helpless, physically, and in a state of complete vulnerability emotionally—as apparently he had been—might not have held such terror in a different setting, in front of a different audience. Preferably someone he knew wouldn't exploit any information he inadvertently revealed.

It wasn't just his own secrets—for example, the fact that he was the Heir of Isildur—that he was in so much fear of making public, but also the myriad of other people's secrets that had been entrusted to him. He didn't dare directly think about those useful pieces of information, for fear dredging them up would bring them closer to the surface, and hence become more accessible and automatic for him to blurt out in his drugged state. All those covert conversations with Mithrandir about the wizard's different speculations and fears for Middle Earth, not to mention the different matters he'd discussed with Elrond, or Thengel, or… Yes, far better he didn't think about any of that right now.

The only thing more ominous than a speaking Heolstor was a silent Heolstor, as Thorongil was discovering. Heolstor hadn't said a word to interrupt his inward speculations. Thorongil was hunched over from the steady cold gnawing at him, his head hanging forward, but at the top of his vision he could see Heolstor's booted feet monotonously going to and fro.

"Aren't you going to give me more?" Thorongil asked under his breath, unable to wait any longer for the inevitable.

Heolstor laughed at the question, just as he'd expected. The answer, he hadn't anticipated however. "I see there are a few things I failed to mention about the properties of my invention. Taken in the amount I gave you, without an antidote, it is fatal. The reason you're not dead is that you haven't even begun to experience the side-effects."

"So, you're waiting to watch me experience the final…'side-effects'?"

Heolstor gave a brief sound of condescending amusement. "Hardly the _final _effects. Although none of my former subjects lasted past the second stage, my guess is a man of strong mind and body might live to experience at least three. Possibly more. I really won't know until I've tested my theories out on someone, will I?"

The statement struck him with all its dread at exactly the same moment a flare of pain shot through his stomach. Unfortunately for his attempts to retain face, he'd just looked up at Heolstor, giving his enemy full view of his flinch of surprised pain. Through gritted teeth, he gasped, "Three? Then I suppose I have a lot to look forward to."

Heolstor stopped pacing to gaze down at him. "Yes, at least three different stages, all invariably worse than the one before."

By now, Thorongil had given up trying to hide the tremors snaking down his spine at regular intervals. He couldn't control them. The spasms hit with precision, stopping for minute, then starting again and not stopping for a good fifteen seconds. As he felt a hazy kind of semi-consciousness settle over him, he panted out between one round of pain, with more desperation then any true hope of an honest reply, "What did I say…last time?"

"As I said, nothing too specific." Heolstor smiled, looking, in some twisted fashion, like an affectionate father promising something to a too-demanding child. "Don't worry, Captain, after this I will give you some more details about this, and our last, conversation. Why don't you try to relax? Just allow it to have its way, and you may just get away with a whole lot less pain."

That, of course, just made Thorongil fight that much harder for control over his shivering body. His medically-trained mind told him that Heolstor was probably telling the truth. Relaxing probably would make the spasms less intense. But overlying the pain, he could feel more of that horrible numbness overpowering him again, so he held on to his sliding control as best as he could. Which wasn't very well at all.

A spasm, more severe than the rest, brought him to the brink of total unconsciousness, and he found any power he'd had slipping from his command. Physically, he was slumping forward towards the welcoming ground, exhausted and wary of the next bout of spasms. He couldn't fight it, he just…couldn't. Alarm bells rang when he recognized the same feelings of apathy that had accompanied the first "stage" of the poison. But, as before, that too was only a muted feeling, far off, barely registering.

This was worse, though, than the first time, for although his ears were ringing, blotting out sound, and his body seemed limp and pliant, he could _feel_ everything. The pain was anything but faint or far off.

Just as before, he was vaguely aware of what was going on around him. Heolstor was talking, his voice booming questions at him. Someone was grabbing him, dragging him upright by an iron grip on his hair and bound arms. Eru, that hurt…

He tried to focus on something other than the pain as another wrenching convulsion caught him by surprise. Either the paroxysms were growing worse, or his sensitivity to them was becoming amplified. Most likely the second, because now that he thought about it, the prickly, aching sensation on his scalp caused by the fingers tangled in his hair seemed to be hurting more than it should have. And he'd had plentyof experience being pulled upright by the roots of his hair and hauled around, courtesy of all the orcs and other evil creatures he'd had the pleasure of being captured by over the years, so he _would _know how it was _supposed _to feel…

He was definitely drifting now. Rather pathetic to be complaining about having your hair pulled while you were dying an excruciating death by poison, but not thinking about that "minor" detail was also definitely helping him cope. That was another thing he'd learned over the years, from varying captors: think about anything but the _real _problem at hand. In other words, don't think about the fact that you're probably going to be dead before the week is out.

Heolstor's voice was still thundering somewhere close by, but Thorongil tried not to think about him at all, or the questions he might end up unconsciously answering.

**---o—oOo—o---**

Upon gaining the ridge no immediate reward, apart from the view, was discernable. After his instinctive awe over the beauty of the valley spreading out before him, Araedhelm's hopes plummeted.

No camp.

No signs of man at all, save for the tracks he was following.

If he was on futile mission, these Dunlendings were certainly being thorough about hiding. Now, it wasn't that he didn't attribute _any _intelligence to the Dunlendings, but many of these coarse men from Dunland seemed to lean more towards possessing a cruel breed of craftiness—not unlike an orc's—rather than genuine cleverness. Also, in his experience, Wild Men rarely _hid _at all, much less took pains to conceal their whereabouts. They seemed to prefer confrontation. Open battle. Victory by sheer force of numbers.

Perhaps that was one of the key reasons the Dunlendings had yet to take Rohan. True, there was Wulf, but his "reign" hadn't lasted long: a grand total of one year before Fréaláf-King had retaken the throne. But they weren't to be underestimated, or shunned as simple-minded barbarians. Dunlendings _were _a force to be reckoned with. They were a tribal, hardy people, a strong people…and a very angry people, at least as far as the people of Rohan and Gondor were concerned. The tension and bad blood between the Horse-lords and Wild Men was a constant reminder that volatile war could erupt again any time

At one time, the Dunlendings had inhabited some part of the very vale in front of him. Now, they were spread throughout Eriador and Gondor—and obviously there were a few in Rohan as well.

Speculation only kept bringing Araedhelm back to the same confusion. Why would a few men, from such a hot-blooded race, suddenly choose stealth? Over-cautiousness had never been a common trait of theirs.

_There's always a first time. Cultures evolve, learn from their mistakes…_

No. For now he'd stay with the theory that someone else—more patient—was dictating all this. Someone who knew how to take advantage of a Dunlending's hot temper and smoldering resentments towards the Horse-lords, and use it to his own advantage. Someone who was smart enough to enlist the aid of Crebain. Someone like Heolstor. And somewhere, at the end of the route he was on, Théoden and Thorongil were waiting to be found and rescued, and he wouldn't let them down.

Araedhelm dismounted, allowing Rynawl to graze on the sparse hillocks of grass that dotted the rocky, windswept pinnacle. The wind was at his face, cool and damp. That, and the sharpness of the breeze, had him turning his attention to the sky. The thunderheads formed a bleak backdrop to the crisp plains of the white-capped mountains. The sight didn't look exactly promising. Actually…it looked terribly, forebodingly, disheartening. A downpour was coming, and at the rate the wind was pulling the clouds the drenching was coming _soon_. Not only did that mean sodden clothes and equipment, more importantly it meant no more trail to follow.

Closing his eyes, Araedhelm put a hand to his forehead and spread his fingers, thumb and index finger smoothing ever either eyebrow to rest on his temples as he hung his head wearily. After allowing himself no more than a minute to remain in the dejected position—hand firmly shadowing his brow, as if obscuring the sight of the gathering storm clouds might make them just _go away_—he straightened back up to examine the horizon, and found that his problems were most certainly, and most _annoyingly_, still there. Inevitable. Nothing in the last month had gone right, so why would the weather cooperate?

In a fine dejected sulk, he remounted and took a fortifying breath. Rynawl tossed his head back to "glare" at him, and Araedhelm let the air trickle back out of his lungs in long exhale of reciprocal frustration.

"Yes, I know. I don't want to push on any more than you do. But they're depending on us, and the rain won't stop just because either of us is dead on our feet." He only urged Rynawl with a urging touch of his heel knowing, for all the dirty looks the beast might give him, he would willingly carry him until he fell over dead before letting him down. "That's it, now it's down hill, old friend. Just take it slow and easy."

Now that the decision had been made to continue without delay, it was hard to keep from throwing all caution to the wind and galloping. However, he knew a head-first tumble down the mountainside probably wouldn't do him any good.

Although not used to such steep terrain, Rynawl was sure-footed and, even exhausted, possessed a stubborn tenacity and single-minded devotion to his master that keep him going far past exhaustion.

For Araedhelm, the change of positions was welcome. At the angle they were descending he had to lean back in the saddle, which felt wonderful after leaning forward for hours during their ascent. Of course, inevitably, his back began to ache from that position as well. The beauty of the country he was traversing was definitely wearing thin, and becoming a little less awe-inspiring, as it took its toll on his stamina.

_Ah, back pain from __riding__—is the damp air making your bones ache too? It's all a part of getting old…_ the realist in him scoffed. Old? Not _old_. Not old as in too-decrepit-to-survive-a-day-of straight riding old. Not _that_ kind of old. That bit of denial brought uproarious laughter from his realistic side. Well, he wasn't saying he was exactly young—but there was an age_ in-between _young and old, despite the way some people acted about it. He was simply entering middle age. Right…

He straightened his back as best he could, feeling the vertebrae in his neck pop as he rotated his head from side to side. He sighed. Middle aged…and, admittedly, feeling a bit on the older side after all this riding, and with the prospect of rain looming, wearing his hope thin.

It wasn't just the physical strain of riding, nor was it the chill in the air—although he admitted it _was _making a few of his old battle wounds ache. There was also more than a little emotional exhaustion mixed in. He was so tired of thinking about what Heolstor might be doing to Théoden and Thorongil. The fact that he was thinking about old age was proof enough of how desperately he didn't want to go down that road of thought. Of course, that pathetic attempt at creating a mental subterfuge hadn't worked because he was resorting back to worrying all the same.

When the first drops began to fall, Araedhelm pulled his hood up and gathered his cape more securely around his shoulders. He hadn't realized he was holding onto any more optimism—until what he had left was shattered by the harshness of the rain. _Apparently_, in some back corner of his mind, he'd been hoping the storm might be gentle enough that the trees would be sufficient protection to keep the tracks from being obliterated.

Not _quite_.

The storm was sudden, and not of long duration, but it was vicious, the raindrops large and hammering. During the short time the torrents lasted visibility became so obscured he gave up, momentarily, and urged Reynawl into the relative shelter of a large fir tree.

If he hadn't been worried out of his mind with anxiety over the possible ruin of his country, or of his Prince being held hostage at an impossible price, or of the likely death one of his best friends, and the general pressure of all three problems concurrently weighing almost entirely on his shoulders—if it weren't for those small distractions—he might have actually appreciated the after-rain effect.

The air was even colder now, but there was a sweet, earthy smell in the air, clean and invigorating as well as distinctly pine-scented. And, looking up at the soaring Ered Nimras, the tree-covered slopes looked more beautiful than ever. The fact that they were partially concealed by thin wisps of misty clouds added an enigmatic quality to them that arrested the imagination.

Or would have, if he'd been in an imaginative mood. Which he was certainly _not_.

On a normal basis, Araedhelm didn't exactly consider 'imagination' among his everyday attributes, although he wasn't above having lapses into "deep thought" where the beauty of nature was concerned. However, there _was _something about having an entire day's work obliterated in the space of ten minutes that was aggravating. It was maddening. If yelling at the elements would have done any good, he might have given it a go. Who cared if it was childish? But he restrained himself for several reasons. Firstly, he might, by some beneficent act of the gods be within hearing range of Heolstor's camp. Secondly, he knew his time would be much better spent looking for any remnants of a trail the rain might have been thoughtful enough to leave alone.

As it turned out, the rain hadn't been thoughtful enough to leave a single footprint behind. Someone, however, seemed to have finally taken some mercy on his plight.

He had already descended far enough into the valley that things were beginning to level out, more or less, but there still was a bit of a ridge separating him from reaching the actual bottom of the gorge. As he rode along the small drop-off, hidden by thick foliage, he began to hear the immeasurably encouraging sound of voices. Hopefully they weren't just in his head.

Dismounting, he led Rynawl by the reigns, stopping occasionally to listen. He'd doubted his own ears at first, thinking it might have been a river, swollen from the brief but heavy storm, but as he got closer to the source he knew his first impression hadn't been wrong.

The sounds were unmistakably coming from somewhere below, to the right. He'd found them. He'd found Heolstor's camp. Thorongil, Théoden… _Don't get excited yet. Finding the camp and rescuing them are two very different things. _But he was ecstatic nonetheless.

That level of excitement was given a severe reality check when he finally _saw _the camp. Instinctively, he crept to the edge of the ridge with as little noise as possible, but it would've probably taken a bit more than a few pebbles kicked down the side of the overhang to alert the rabble below. It was so much more than he'd expected. So much…bigger. Knowing Heolstor, he should have expected something like this. Instead of a couple dozen Dunlendings it looked like there were hundreds. _Calm down, count, _estimate_… _He took a couple of concentrated breaths and began to scan the camp for a second time, looking more carefully for details, using his practiced eye to estimate the numbers below. He tried to take it all in with a more detached mind-set.

There were four pavilions in all. The largest one was most likely being used by Heolstor. Then there were the three smaller ones, probably being used for storage. Other than that, the inhabitants of the camp were spread out over a large clearing, most of them gathered around the dozens of fire pits that dotted the area. Some of the pits had meat-skewered spits over them. The rain had put many of the fires out, and impatient-looking Dunlendings were attempting to reignite the wet wood by various means.

He turned his attention on the actual men, trying to approximate their number. Well, maybe he'd overreacted at first. There probably weren't quite _hundreds_, but from what he could tell there were well over one hundred. Maybe one-hundred-fifty?

Most of them were Dunlendings, but gathered around the fire most directly under him he could see a group of perhaps two dozen who looked distinctly different. More of the mercenaries who'd first attacked Thorongil on the road, and then committed suicide by poison? Whoever they were, they kept themselves quite apart from the Dunlendings, acting almost as if the loud horde around them didn't exist. One of them was patiently goading an ember back to life with single-minded attention. No doubt these were Heolstor's hand-picked men.

For a long, long time all Araedhelm could do was hunch behind his cover and stare. There was no sign of either Thorongil or Théoden, but this had to be it. The tracks had indeed led him to where he wanted to go. But now that he was where he wanted to go, he wasn't quite so clear on what he wanted to do. _Oh you know what you _want_ to do. _He wanted to get Théoden and Thorongil as far away from here as possible, that's what he wanted to do. He wanted to storm down there, kill anyone who got in his way, and search those tents until he found them. He'd like to put his sword through Heolstor's treacherous heart. That's what he _wanted _to do. But, as usual, duty and desires, although closely related in this case, each demanded very different courses of action. He already knew what want was dictating. The question was, what was duty demanding he do? What were common sense and sanity demanding he do?

_Wait. Wait and watch. _

Where had that boring idea come from?

_That would be your sanity trying to get to you._

Of course. The laws of sanity were tedious and dull. If he knew duty, it was probably telling him to do the same thing. Wait, and watch, and generally sit around and do nobody any good. A perfect plan. Just the thing to do. _Gods, now that I've found it, all I can do is wait—that's the absolute best I can come up with? Well…yes, as of now, that appears to be Lieutenant Araedhelm's brilliant stratagem. Brilliant. This all you can come up with after all these years of battle? Of course, it is this kind of heroics that gets you moved up in rank. _

His cynicism was in full sway now. If he was at home, by this point Cwén would have told him to go to the inn and get an ale and not come back until he'd gotten rid of this "charming version" of her husband. And she would have been right. Sulking was going to get him even less than waiting was. Waiting had its merits. At the moment, he could certainly use a reminder of what those merits were.

He wasn't feeling patient, but he was feeling tired, and for a couple of hours that was enough to keep him from flying off on a rash impulse. He was too tired to do anything heroic, keeping his eyes open was hard enough. If he didn't think about Théoden or Thorongil, he did just fine. He let Rynawl graze nearby, and allowed himself to fall into a semi-aware slumber that many years of sleeping during dangerous situations had made second nature. This state was much easier to keep alert in, but at the same time wander mentally into trivial matters.

Somewhere, he'd heard tales about the elves, and how they could sleep, if sleep it could be called, "…resting their minds in the strange paths of elvish dreams, even as they walked open-eyed in the light of the world." That seemed to be how he remembered the storyteller phrasing it. What he was doing never seemed quite so…poetic, but he was able to reach a point where any movement in his vision might register, even while consciousness faded into the background.

In this case, he'd set his concentration to the four tents, his eyes dividing his attention systematically between them, though pausing for longer moments at a time on the largest of them. It was on one such pause that his efforts were paid off. The flaps of the entrance to the largest tent opened, and a familiar form was none-too-gently hauled out between two men. Araedhelm's reaction was to jolt up from his hunched position, self-preservation vaporizing at the sight.

"Thorongil, my friend, what have they done to you…?"

At least he had the preservation to utter the words in a tight undertone rather than shouting it, along with a few choice expletives, to the entire camp. He gripped the slender trunk of a nearby birch tree, nails digging into the soft white bark as he forced himself to watch his captain dragged unceremoniously across the camp towards one of the smaller tents Araedhelm had assumed were for storage. Well, he'd been right, more or less. They were using it for storage, of a kind. He wondered if they were keeping Théoden in the same tent.

From where he was he couldn't make out details, but Araedhelm strained to look for any injuries on his captain. There weren't any that he could see. Thorongil's head hung forward limply, his dark, shoulder-length hair obscuring his face, so Araedhelm couldn't tell if a head wound was the cause of his unconsciousness.

Somehow, the fact that no injuries were _visible _didn't comfort Araedhelm like it might have—his unconsciousness was concerning enough. He had to be unconscious, and not the more drastic alternative. Araedhelm was quite firmly convinced, or so he convinced himself. After all, if he wasn't just unconscious than he would surely have been…disposed of. Now that he thought of it, though, they could just be dumping him in the storage tent until they could dig a shallow grave and… _I am _not_ going there._

After that short foray into morbid brooding, Araedhelm reigned himself in again. His attention remained snagged on the tent long after Thorongil had disappeared into its shadowy interior. Nothing happened, except the reappearance of the two men who'd hauled his captain in there, and after a time his eyes automatically resumed their drifting attention to all four tents. Every time his gaze lingered on the largest one, he felt a stronger desire to march down there and have a little "talk" with Heolstor. _Easy, Araedhelm, you can't go _there_ either. Yet._

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**To be continued...**

Thanks much for all the reviews, folks! ;-)

(Note: The quote about elven dreams is directly from The Two Towers--no infringments intended. -g- I've always loved that line.)


	26. Protective Instincts

**_See first chapter for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes. _**

**A/N: I'm sorry, I'm sorry... I didn't exactly forget about updating... I just whent to see the Bourne Ultimatum instead (concidentally, it was a terrific movie). -is thoroughly ashamed of self- My dad was off work for a dentists appointment, and we decided to go at the last minute, so I didn't have the time. :-( **

**Hope you enjoy the chapter, however belated!**

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**Chapter 26: Protective Instincts **

The last time, when Thorongil had been gone for so long, he'd been a little…concerned. But this time not only had he been gone a very long time, but when they'd finally brought Thorongil back he'd been unconscious, and after waiting an even longer time, Théoden was beginning to get scared.

For the fifth time in an equal amount of ten minute lapses, Théoden nudged the broad shoulder and whispered his name.

"Thorongil…?"

As on each previous occasion his plea was swallowed up by the intense silence.

The sun was at such an angle behind them that Théoden couldn't see Thorongil's features very clearly, but he looked very white. But that could just be his imagination. The way Thorongil was sagging away from the post, his weight resting heavily on his bound hands, looked uncomfortable, and Théoden wished there was something he could do to help. The prince squirmed against his own bonds—he wished there was something he could do about his own position, too.

Hours of sitting and trying to sleep and forget how much trouble he was in were making him restless. He wished when the men came they'd untie him, and take him with them somewhere, just so he could walk… Well, maybe he didn't. Sometimes it was Mehdal who came, and sometimes it was the dark-haired man. The thought of going with either one of them was frightening.

Ten more minutes passed. He whispered again, more now out of compulsive habit and fear than hope.

"Thorongil…"

Never had he been so happy to hear someone moan.

"Thorongil?" he reiterated with renewed enthusiasm.

Another low moan followed by another heartbeat of silence, and then a very husky, "Théoden."

Théoden bit his lip. He was relieved Thorongil was awake, but his voice was so disoriented and weak. "Did they…hurt you this time?" Much to his further relief, Thorongil sounded more grounded when he spoke again.

"I am well."

Thorongil's ambiguous statement didn't sound too stable in his opinion, but the captain was pulling himself upright, which he was glad to see. Where their shoulders touched, however, Théoden could feel a shiver—or a shudder—run through Thorongil. "But they did hurt you. You wouldn't wake up for a long time."

"I am sorry, tithen-pen, I didn't mean to scare you. They did hurt me a little, but I am alright now. You don't have to worry."

The normalcy, though not the strength, seemed to be returning to Thorongil's tone. Théoden couldn't decide if he should allow himself to be convinced or not. Thorongil wouldn't _lie _to him, but what if he was exaggerating, just a bit, about how little they'd hurt him? The sun had traveled a long way across the sky in the time he'd been gone, and they could have hurt him a lot in that space.

"I don't think you're alright." It slipped out, and after a moment of slight self-consternation, Théoden realized he meant what he'd said, and he was going to stick by it. It was obvious Thorongil was treating him like a baby who couldn't be told the whole truth. "I think you're not at all alright," he added defiantly, gaining confidence in his theory.

Thorongil gave a raspy but genuine chuckle. "At this moment, you remind me very much of a good friend of mine."

That caught the young prince off guard, and for a moment he almost gave in to impulse and let curiosity take over. He really would have liked to know who Thorongil's best friend was. But then he recognized the comment for the distraction it must have been intended as. If he hadn't been tied up, he would have crossed his arms. "You can't distract me like that, you know. I _know_ you're hurt."

This time Thorongil nearly choked on an equally hoarse laugh. "I swear, _hir-nin_, you've been taking lessons from him. You sound just like him."

The double-ploy was irresistible. Now Théoden was dying to know who this friend—who he sounded _just _like—was, and what this new, undoubtedly elvish, word was. He would make Thorongil tell him how badly he was hurt later. "What does that mean?"

"Hir-nin?"

"Yes."

"It means 'my Lord'."

"Oh…" Théoden tucked that bit of information away along with _tithen-pen. _He didn't quite understand why Thorongil was calling him _hir-nin_. Thorongil had never been overly stiff or formal around him, like some people were, and when he called him something like "young prince", he usually made it sound a lot kinder and more like a name than other people did. He rarely called him "Highness", which Théoden was glad of. He liked it even better when he just called him Théoden—that was his name, after all. He didn't mind _hir-nin_, though. Thorongil had said it in the same way he said Théoden, and he liked the sound of the foreign words. After digesting that, he asked, "Do I really sound just like your best friend?"

"Just a moment ago, _exactly _like him," Thorongil confirmed.

"Who is your best friend?"

"His name is Legolas. He's an elf."

If Théoden hadn't been interested before, he was no. "An _elf_? Your best friend is an elf?"

"Aye. He's been a good friend to me for many years."

"What does Legolas mean?" Théoden asked, copying Thorongil's elvish pronunciation of the name.

"'Green leaf'."

"Why would you want to be called that?" As soon as he'd said it, Théoden wondered if it had been a good thing to say, since Legolas was Thorongil's best friend. But Thorongil's pondering tone sounded amused.

"Hmm, well, 'green leaf' may sound like a strange name to us, but elves love nature, and Legolas' people love trees in particular." _Wouldn't you have enjoyed hearing_ this _conversation, mellon-nin?_

Théoden didn't have long to think about that information. The tent flap opened, dazzling them with outdoor light, and the dark-haired man entered. Théoden relaxed, and he could feel Thorongil doing the same, when the saw that he merely brought food with him.

Wordlessly, the man undid Théoden's bonds first, allowing him to eat while he stood by watching. Having the man's eyes glued on him like that made him feel uncomfortable, but Théoden was past hungry by this point, and devoured the coarse meal, nearly choking on the dry bread before washing it down with a gulp of tepid, metallic-tasting water.

"Not so used to commoners' food, are you, _Prince_?"

They were the first words Théoden had heard from the dark-haired man, at least directed at him, and they were spoken with intense contempt. If he hadn't been so intimidated, he might have felt angry at the accusation. Although he'd always eaten well, and had plenty, it wasn't as if the royal family ate frivolously while the kingdom went without. Their fare had never been much different then that of the "commoners". But he was too frightened to voice any of that in an angry retort, so he didn't say anything. The dark-haired man didn't appear to like that any better than he might have appreciated an argument.

"Nothing to say? No demands for your rights as a _lord _of Rohan?"

Now Théoden was even more out of his depth. Although he was bright, and paid more attention to politics than most children his age would, he was having a hard time placing the exact source of the man's hatred. But he could recognize the fact that the man did have some kind of vendetta against him and, not knowing how to deflect the anger aimed at him, swallowed and kept his silence.

Again, his forbearance did not produce the results he was hoping for. He'd been averting his eyes and thus wasn't aware of the man advancing until a fist was pulling him up by the front of the shirt.

"Too high and mighty to even talk to the likes of me?" The dark-haired man shook him. "Is that it?"

"Leave. Him. Alone." The demand was not shouted, or even elevated above a normal tone, but it resonated with command, and carried the authority of man filled with righteous anger. Thorongil had been watching, wanting to intercede, but maintaining self-control. Until the man had grabbed the prince and begun to shake him.

The man quit shaking Théoden, his attention diverted, but he didn't let go.

Thorongil stared hard at the other man, eyes no less icy or intense for all his weakness. _If you knew what was good for your health you'd let him go. Right now. _Well, apparently he didn't know what was good for his health. Time for another well-placed comment. "Surely Captain Heolstor hasn't given you permission to damage your only real hope at success by harming your hostage?"

The other man glared at him for a long moment, then let Théoden drop to the ground, retying the child's arms to the post with only partially restrained vindictiveness. He'd brought another plate of food and set it on the ground, but when he turned his attention on Thorongil it was not to untie him and allow him a chance to eat.

"So _you_ want an argument with me then, Captain?"

"You won't touch him again."

"Or what?"

Thorongil's lips curved mockingly. "Let us just say Heolstor doesn't need men with your lack of self-control guarding _hostages_."

"Oh, I have plenty of self-control, I wasn't planning on killing the brat, just knocking him around a bit and giving him a taste of justice."

"Justice?" Thorongil scoffed. "Has a seven-year-old done something to you that you feel the need to exact justice for?"

"Don't be an idiot, Thorongil. It's his kind—and your kind. If I had my way right now we wouldn't playing around with _hostages _at all."

"You have something against 'our' kind? Don't tell me you're related to the mindless rabble out there?" Thorongil knew perfectly well how stupid that inference was, but his opponent was already drifting back towards where this conversation had began—and looking threateningly at Théoden. This time the fist was gripping _him _by the shirt, but instead of shaking him the dark-haired man slammed him with brutal force against the post. _Well, Thorongil, you might have started in a little _too_ heavy with the distraction. _

The man's face was very close to his now, full of seething hate. There was a bitterness in those cruel eyes that told Thorongil he'd definitely tapped into a source of hostility that would have been much better left alone.

**---o—oOo—o---**

Heolstor was in no frame of mind to gracefully accept Mehdal's news. Whatever it was.

"My Lord?"

"What is it _now_?"

Mehdal stayed as composed as his voice despite Heolstor's irritated backlash. "I thought it best, my Lord, that I inform you that Rador is currently in the act of harming Captain Thorongil."

Heolstor threw up an arm in a jerky motion of exasperation. "Well _let _him!"

At that moment Heolstor could have cared less if the entire camp felt like venting their petty resentments out on Thorongil. He was unnecessary to the plan, as well as becoming increasingly infuriating. Even during the second stage of the poison—the second stage!—he hadn't said more than a handful of words. And, of the words he'd said, most of them had been in elvish, a language he could recognize by sound, but only knew the meanings of a few words.

His mind paced restlessly over the problem. He was going to have to move out soon if he was to succeed, and if Thorongil didn't break after this next session he might never get the chance to see the results of his hard labors. He'd put so much work into the poison it would be terribly disappointing if he had to leave before Thorongil broke, and then he'd have to find a new "subject", who would probably have nowhere near as intriguing a past as Thorongil.

Maybe it was for the best that he allow Rador to have a little fun now. But he couldn't let it go too far. As he regained some semblance of reason, he realized he definitely didn't want Thorongil dead yet.

Mehdal was standing near the door, as unobtrusive and patient as a statue, and as his sulking mood eased Heolstor felt a small swell of something not quite enough to be called gratitude, but approaching appreciation. For all his occasional bursts of unwarranted wrath towards his second-in-command, Heolstor knew Mehdal was one of the few men he could unhesitatingly rely on, if not the only one. It was probably _because_ of Mehdal's enduring tolerance that he vented so often on the one man who just as often didn't deserve it.

But Mehdal weathered it well, just like he was stolidly doing now. As usual, Heolstor didn't apologize, but he did take the sharpness out of his tone, and his gesture looked a little less like a threat. "Go…stop the idiot before he does irreparable damage."

Mehdal nodded curtly and turned on his heel, stalking briskly across the camp, heedless of the men around him, and pulled open the flap of the tent the prisoners were kept in. A couple of Rador's closest fellow-rebels had slipped inside to watch. They fell back into the shadows when Mehdal arrived on the scene. Rador didn't halt in his pummeling of Thorongil. Mehdal knew he'd probably heard his entrance but was ignoring him. Not an unusual occurrence.

Mehdal was thrumming with irritation, and even a small twinge of remorse, though not on Thorongil's behalf. He did flinch briefly in sympathy at the unconscious figure still being worked over by his extremely thorough-to-a-fault brother. However, what irked his sense of justice—rigid and harsh, but never hypocritical—was the needless cruelty of it. Most of all, he flinched away from the sight of the wide-eyed, tearful child witnessing the brutality.

"Rador, is this necessary?" The way Mehdal said it made it quite obvious it _wasn't_.

Rador looked directly at him before cocking back his arm and landing a last defiant punch. "Necessary? He isn't 'necessary' to our plan at all, _brother_."

"Until Lord Heolstor gives you permission—"

"Permission," Rador scoffed. "Everything leads back to 'Lord Heolstor' for you, doesn't it? Well I'm sick and tired of everything needing his _permission_. We don't owe him anything."

Mehdal clenched his jaw and glared right back. "We owe him _everything_, though you've obviously forgotten."

"So he took us in when we were little more than orphaned street rats—are you going to be his simpering slave for the rest of your life because of it? He wasn't exactly what you could call a _father _to us."

Mehdal was silent, feeling the memories of those dark days when he, Cyren, and Rador had been on their own. They'd been homeless, penniless, and parentless. On top of all of that, they'd been countryless as well. Half-breeds. Half Rohirric, and half Dunlending. The rough, nomadic ways of the Wild Men had scared them away from that part of their heritage, even if they could have found a place to fit in with them.

As for the Rohirrim… When they'd ventured into the border lands, into the small, rural villages, Mehdal had been encouraged by the simple ordinariness of the people. Some were kind, even to three dirty street urchins, with their dark hair and distinctly non-Rohirric looks. He remembered those kind faces, but they were overridden by the hostile ones.

Looking back with the experience of an adult, he knew he couldn't judge an entire race by the cruelty of a few. He also knew Rador had lived up to his untrustworthy core nature even then. When that seedy, prejudiced inn-keeper had accused them of stealing and given them a beating, how was he to know whether or not they had deserved it? When they'd been thrown out of town, how was he to know that they really _weren't _"deceitful little beggars"? Rador might have done everything they were accused of. Cyren didn't have a treacherous bone in his body, and he knew he hadn't taken the missing items, but Rador wasn't remotely above doing something like that, even as a child, and he certainly wasn't above lying to his brothers about it.

Somewhere, in that haze of childhood, amidst the hurt, confusion, mistrust, and hatred, Heolstor had come in like a hero out of a book and believed in him: believed he wasn't an idiot, wasn't a filthy, half-breed brat, or a thief. Heolstor had even believed there was something worthwhile in him. That he was a leader who could accomplish something for himself. Heolstor had treated him with dignity, the first person to do so in his entire life, and he'd clung that bit of respect. Even when Heolstor treated him coolly, he still _respected _him. Even though Heolstor had never really been a father, never given him or his brothers the love of a parent, he'd given him chance to prove himself.

He'd come to the point where he didn't hate the Rohirrim; he wouldn't make the same mistake as Rador had, and hate an entire race unfairly. But he did owe a debt of gratitude to Heolstor, and he wouldn't disappoint that early faith that had been placed on his shoulders. Right now, he had two goals: to follow Heolstor to the bitter end, or glorious victory, and protect Cyren. Cyren was, perhaps, the only major regret he had for following Heolstor. Cyren had deserved a kinder childhood than he'd received. Mehdal had never been able to be mother and father to him, but had tried to given him all the protection a big brother with no resources or education could. At least Heolstor had provided for all their physical needs.

And here Rador stood glaring at him with that vicious sneer Mehdal had seen on his face repeatedly, even when they were young, and had always wanted to forcibly remove from his face. However, the same as when they were younger, he restrained that urge and kept his expression of anger to clipped, authoritative words.

"No, Lord Heolstor was never a father to any of us, but we do owe him everything we are, and you will do well to remember it. You are my brother, as much as it pains me, and for the sake of blood alone I would hate to betray you. But if you touch either of the prisoners again without direct permission from Lord Heolstor I will report it to him and let him have his way with you. You are bad blood through and through, brother, as I have seen manifested in many ways, and if I have to for the sake of the plan, I will not hesitate to restrain you myself."

Rador was obviously impressed with the long speech from his normally concise brother, but he recovered long enough to respond snidely, "Oh, _restrain _me would you? I'm trembling with fear. Tell me, dear brother, if I killed the little royal whelp without Lord Heolstor's oh-so-precious _permission_, would you kill me at his order?"

Mehdal narrowed his eyes. "Let me just say I wouldn't advise you test my commitment to him against my commitment to you." He leaned in towards his brother, and whispered in a low and dangerous voice, "You ruined many chances for Cyren and me as children. You won't ruin this one if you have any sense left. Now get out of this tent. Immediately. And I would suggest you find someone else to feed the prisoners in the future."

Rador left in a childish sulk, but Mehdal knew childish pouting, mixed with his deeply rooted life-long resentments, could produce catastrophic results when it came to Rador.

Mehdal turned back to the problem at hand, scanning Thorongil and hesitating on Théoden, who was watching him with disconcertingly accusing eyes, shining with angry tears. When he approached Thorongil to check for a pulse, the child began to yank against the bonds the held him, glaring daggers at him. Théoden gave a small grunt of pain after one particularly savage jerk forward.

"Calm down, little one, I'm not going to hurt either one of you."

"Why should I believe you? You're just keeping us as hostages, to get things from my father, and then you're going to kill us." Another desperate tug at the ropes, and a tear trickled down the young prince's cheek. "He hurt Thorongil. Why should I believe you?"

Mehdal renewed his purpose to check Thorongil for a pulse, unable to come up with words to console the child.

"Don't touch him!"

"Easy, little one…"

"And don't call me that, like you care!"

So the royal temper _wasn't _a myth. "Please, Highness, I only mean to check his pulse." He kept the amusement in his voice discreet, and the reassurance as open as possible. He hadn't meant for the kindness to creep into his voice to such a degree, but there was something completely undoing about the tears of a child. Especially when said child had every reason to cry, and any reassurances he gave were shallow. Thorongil might very well be dead now, and there was no guarantee he wouldn't be dead tomorrow. Being beaten to death would have probably been a mercy compared to the death he faced by Heolstor's poison. Little did Théoden know a beating was the least of the captain's concerns.

Théoden's death-glare never relented for a second. His tears hadn't stopped, but he was making an effort to keep his chin from trembling by clenching his jaw as hard as he could and speaking his words through tightly closed teeth. "And don't call me _that_, either. I'm not going to be a prince for much longer. You're going to kill me, too."

That hit home. Mehdal wasn't able to keep a visible wince off his face. The truth was, he didn't know for sure what Heolstor's plans were for Théoden, though he liked to think his life would be spared. "That's not true, if your father—"

"If my father gives Heolstor whatever he wants you'll let me go." Théoden's control on his jaw slipped and chin trembled for a moment before he got it back under control and said firmly, "But my father won't, he _won't_ do it. I don't want him to." Fierce determination shone in his eyes, Théoden's heritage through the long line of Warrior-Kings of the Mark whose pride and courage he'd obviously inherited.

"You are a born soldier, young prince." Beyond that, Mehdal couldn't bring himself to give any more guarantees which he knew Théoden would sense to be just what they were: unfounded guesses and blind optimism. Instead, he diverted his attention from the sight of the crying child back to Thorongil. This time, although his mistrust was still evident, Théoden's eyes only followed him apprehensively as he checked Thorongil's pulse.

"Is he a-alive?" Théoden whispered fearfully, voice hitching over a shuddering breath as his tears began to dry.

"Yes, he's alive."

Mehdal stood to retrieve one of the mugs of water Rador had brought in with the prisoners' lunch, then stooped back down in front of Thorongil, pulling his limp weight up and supporting it with one arm. Although he was obviously far away from full consciousness or coherency, Thorongil's brow creased and a pained groan escaped his cracked lips. Mehdal flinched at sight of his face. Blood trickled out of one corner of his lip as well as from a gash across his left cheek, and he had no doubt many bruises would become visible later on. He used the few moments while Thorongil stirred to get him to swallow some of the water.

He set the water back down and straightened back up. There…at least he wouldn't get dehydrated. He closed his eyes briefly. Who was he trying to fool? Himself? The answer was resounding: _yes_. But nothing would help in this case. Thorongil would die a slow and painful death, that couldn't be prevented. He would try to keep Théoden from witnessing Thorongil's death, and he hoped there would be no need to harm the prince at all… But he'd chosen his side already, and Heolstor was the one giving orders.

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**To be continued...**


	27. Involuntary Information

_**See first chapter for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes. **_

**A/N:** Herein is the more detailed conversation several of you have been asking for...

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**Chapter 27: Involuntary Information **

By his next arranged "meeting" with Thorongil, Heolstor had mostly managed to rid himself of his morose mood and was in a very efficient, professional mindset. He was ready to get down to business, and if that entailed pushing hard, then he was going to push hard. There would be no more witty interchange—not that Thorongil looked in any state to do much more than groan. Well, he was rather depending on him being a little more coherent than that once the third stage of the poison took effect.

When Thorongil was brought in, conscious but relying primarily upon the two men behind him to keep him upright, things didn't look so hopeful. Rador had certainly worked him over well before Mehdal had gotten there.

Bending over, Heolstor tilted Thorongil's chin upwards with two fingers. Glazed silver eyes stared back, aware, but having obvious difficulty remaining focused on their surroundings.

"Ah yes, Captain, it would appear you're human after all, and will succumb like any man. This may be our last session after all."

Heolstor paced around his kneeling prisoner several times before dropping into a seat. Chin in hand, he waited for any sign that the next progression of the poison was taking place. He had no way of knowing exactly what the next evolution would look like, having never had anyone under his concoction last this long. The catatonic appearance could be one of the next effects. Or it could be the aftermath of a Rador-induced concussion. Or it might even be a ruse by Thorongil to make him think he was worse off than he actually was. All things considered, Heolstor decided to wait a while longer.

Not long afterwards he was given all the signs he could have asked for. There was a distinct tightening of Thorongil's shoulders, followed by an almost soundless gasp, then he curled forward. Aha, the spasms again, apparently even worse than last time.

He watched some more, grimacing and turning to the table next to him to record his observations on a piece of parchment when Thorongil began to retch. He'd done that last time further towards the end when he had been close to losing consciousness. This time it was far more severe. Having almost no contents in his stomach, Thorongil was quickly reduced to involuntary dry-heaves.

Heolstor sat back, raising an eyebrow as his experiment gagged helplessly, locked into a vicious cycle between never-ending spasms and nausea. He'd expected some kind of spectacular finale, but this was really quite impressive.

The retching continued for a long time, and Heolstor spent the time alternately grimacing when he glanced in Thorongil's direction, and scribbling addendums to his previous notes on the complicated properties of Ethalomyn Hasnephar.

By the time the symptoms had lessened Thorongil was hanging completely limp in the two guards' grips.

Heolstor set down his quill. "Bring him over here."

As ordered the guards dragged Thorongil nearer to where Heolstor was seated. One of them—either the epitome of helpfulness, or the epitome of general petty nastiness—gripped him by the hair and pulled his head back for Heolstor's more convenient viewing. Heolstor faithfully picked up the quill again to hastily jot down a few more details—eyes half-lidded, grey complexion—before turning seriously to the task at hand.

It had been a decidedly one-way conversation so far, and he intended to change that.

"So…you're looking more companionable and helpful than you were yesterday, Captain—but you do look a little worse for wear."

Thorongil's eyelids blinked once, sluggishly, but he was otherwise unresponsive. After his previous display of apparently genuine sickness, and the spasms, as well as the incessant shudders that shook him, Heolstor was inclined to believe the dazed look was also for real. Thorongil's body was going into overload, moving into a place of detachment where he'd be much more pliable and vulnerable to Heolstor's skills.

"Why don't we start out with a few simple questions about your family?"

Heolstor slid naturally into his best persuasive tone, the kind he would have used on a child, and the one he'd found worked best on most drugged-out-of-their-mind individuals. Besides, even Heolstor had to admit, the particular drugged individual in front of him was looking especially pathetic, and it seemed only natural to use a gentler voice, even if it was just a pretence. The glassy, mildly-vacant, and completely vulnerable grey eyes staring through him were a far cry from the steely expression Captain Thorongil usually wore when around him. It was like catching a glimpse into an entirely different version of the man, a man still surprisingly young despite his experience in the ways of the world and of war. That, alone, was interesting to witness, and he hadn't even _begun _with this session.

"Tell me, Thorongil, who are your parents?"

Thorongil's eyes were focused on him now, but he wasn't responding, so Heolstor deepened his voice and increased its note of fake gentleness. "Your father, your mother—who are they?"

Heolstor waited patiently. Thorongil's brow furrowed, as if in pain, but he still didn't say anything.

"Alright, why don't you tell me about your home? Where did you live as a young child?"

"Nowhere," Thorongil finally croaked out a reply to that question.

Heolstor raised an eyebrow. "You never had a home as child?"

There was that frown again. "Wandered…many places."

"Hmm…" Heolstor was back to avidly scribbling notes. "So your parents never had a permanent dwelling. How interesting. Where are your parents now?"

The silence was so long after that question Heolstor had almost given up and gone on to another question for fear he'd close up again, then Thorongil responded huskily: "Dead."

"I see. How did they die?" An irreverent question, probably, but Heolstor felt like prying. What was the good of all this work if he didn't put it to thorough use? He was getting used to the way Thorongil would pause for a long time between questions, as if fighting an inner battle. Admirable: even now he was struggling to win control, however vainly. Either that, or these questions held particular emotional discomfort.

"Orcs killed them."

"And when did this happen? Recently?"

"I was…young. A very long time ago…I was there."

"Why weren't you killed by orcs? How did you escape?"

The thick sorrow clouding Thorongil's eyes relaxed abruptly into a look of fondness. "My brothers…they came. They rescued me."

"How many brothers do you have?"

"Two."

Heolstor was pleased to note that Thorongil was speaking more in a monotone now, as if his body, at least, was succumbing to poison rushing through his veins. "Any sisters?"

"No."

Thorongil had hesitated to give his parents' names. Obviously there was a great deal of pain wrapped around his earliest memories of them, since they'd apparently died when he was young. But he seemed less inhibited about his brothers, so maybe he could begin delving for more details from that angle. "What are your brothers' names?"

The open fondness resurfaced, but the response was less than helpful. "El…"

"One of your brothers' names is…El?" Silence. "_Both _of your brothers' names are 'El'?"

If he hadn't known better, the smile that played around the edges of Thorongil's mouth might have looked mocking. Of course, Thorongil was too far gone to still be mocking him, even if he'd been consciously aware of his presence anymore. But there was a definite touch of teasing in his expression as he gave a soft, ambiguous, "No…"

Well. He'd just leave specific names alone for the time being, then. "So, your brothers, they raised you alone?"

"No."

Heolstor sighed. He was getting a lot of yes's and no's now, without much elaboration. Frustrating, but doable. He just wished he could get Thorongil to open up. Valar curse the man, he was as stubborn half dead and in a poisoned trance as he was when he was "normal". "Who _did _raise you?" A nostalgic smile instantly brightened Thorongil's face—a good sign surely. Maybe this foster parent, or parent_s,_ was the key?

"_Adar-nin_." //My father.//

Heolstor waited in silence. One of the main tools he'd specifically designed the poison for was its ability to dig into the subconscious and dredge up old memories, good and bad. It was easy to see that Thorongil was reliving some enjoyable part of his childhood, as his eyelids slipped closed, and beneath, his eyes began to move rapidly back and forth, his breathing comfortably shallow.

"_Illumë…varna_." //Always safe.//

Wonderful. Fantastic. _Dear gods above don't let him go off on that Eru-forsaken language again... _Time to try and redirect the conversation. "Where did this…'Adar' raise you?"

"_Már—Imladris_." //Home—Rivendell.// _"Atar-nya illumë—_" //My father always—//

"As fascinating as all that is, why don't you use _Westron_, Captain?"

"_Am man theled, Erestor?_ _Ú-aníron—_" //Why, Erestor? I don't want—//

Heolstor's façade of kindness finally slipped as he snapped, "Enough!" He knew as soon as he'd said it that he was going to have to re-master his emotions or risk blowing the whole thing.

The effect had been instantaneous on Thorongil, bringing him sharply back into the present from where ever his mind had been wandering, leaving him looking confused, but a little more aware of his surroundings.

Heolstor left the silence untouched until Thorongil relaxed a fraction, then began again as if nothing had happened, "Tell me more about your family—in the Common Tongue, if you will." No response. "Why don't we move forward, to when you're bit older? You've been such an enigma during your time in Rohan, I don't even know where to begin with questions, so why don't you just start talking about the first thing that comes to mind?" Afraid to lose the conversation, he gave a last, overly-bright bit of encouragement, "Just tell me about what you did, who you met—that sort of thing."

"Wandered."

"You went back to wandering, like your parents?"

"Sometimes."

"You returned home, sometimes?" Heolstor worked to fill in the broad gaps between the monosyllabic answers. "You visited friends, perhaps?" As Thorongil seemed to perk up at the word "friend", he ventured, "You had a friend you spent much time with?"

"Yes."

The reply was as fondly spoken as when he'd been speaking about his brothers, or "Adar". Something about Thorongil's wistfulness compelled him to ask, "Is this friend…dead?"

"No!"

It was the first animated response any of his questions had garnered, but before he could think about how to respond, or pry further, Thorongil was volunteering more information, as he was once again immersed in memories. This time, apparently, they weren't so pleasant.

"No—_no_—Adar said he would recover! He said he would be well, he's doing just fine…" Thorongil was breathing heavily, panic lacing his words. "Legolas, mellon-nin… You will recover, you have to, you must…" The pleading words ended in heavy pants for air, as Thorongil swallowed thickly, wincing at the strain of doing so while his head was titled at the awkward angle it was being held back at. He moaned feverishly, sweat trickling down the side of his temples. "You can't do this to me, mellon-nin, please…"

Heolstor wrote the information down abstractly. Thorongil was quiet again, and looking the picture of exhaustion. "Well, I'll take all that to mean that you did have a friend, then." _And a very close one at that._ From the way Thorongil had reacted, he couldn't quite figure out whether the friend had indeed died, or if Thorongil were merely reliving this friend's _near _death. Either way, he figured it was probably best not to press _that_ subject anymore."Let us move forward again. Tell me, Captain Thorongil, have you ever been married?"

Dull grey eyes rose ever so slowly to meet his. Now that he was looking directly into them, they looked so much older than Heolstor had ever noticed, almost the incongruous opposite of that glimpse of a young Thorongil he'd caught earlier on. They were so weary, down to their very depths, that they looked like all the life had been drained out of them, and for a moment—just a brief, _infinitesimal_ moment—Heolstor almost shared his pain. He almost hesitated. Almost.

"Well, have you ever been married? Have you ever been in _love_, Captain?"

Thorongil's face twisted with pain. "Yes…" he uttered it with tenderness, but so quietly Heolstor had to lean closer to hear. "…love her…so much."

"Ah, so you have a patient wife waiting somewhere for your return, and maybe a few children, eh?"

"Never…married."

Heolstor did a rapid mental review of Thorongil's life, or the sketchy details he knew of it. First off, he'd never had a settled home as child. Then, he was orphaned at a young age. Thirdly, it sounded like he may have lost his best friend, in some traumatic way or other. Fourthly, he was, apparently, as tragic in love as in the rest of his life. He remembered the dried roses, and the letter, he'd found in the drawer of Thorongil's desk. He'd already firmly pressed any pity he might have felt to the side, but he was certainly incredulous. _Don't tell me the lady's dead as well; nobody is actually _that_ unlucky._

As casually as he could, he inquired, "If you never married her, then where is this…fair damsel of yours? Does the lady not return your love?" _Or _are_ you that unlucky?_

"Oh Arwen…" Thorongil closed his eyes, and would have undoubtedly let his head hang forward if it weren't for the brutal and persistent fingers gripping him by the hair. "_Nae Undomiel...meleth-nin. Gerich veleth nin, heerf._ _Goheno nin, goheno nin... Meleth nin thel-methen le… _" //Alas Undomiel, my love. You have my love, always. Forgive me, forgive me… My love will kill you.//

Heolstor clenched and unclenched his jaw as the beseeching, heart-broken words dwindled into shuddering gasps for air. He could see it was futile now. He angrily acknowledged it, but that didn't mean he was happy about it. Thorongil was dying, succumbing to the poison at last. He motioned to the guard to release his hold on Thorongil's hair, having read on his pale, sweat-streaked face all the confirmation he needed that his experiment had reached its peak and was now past it. Thorongil was a strong-willed and strong-minded man, but he wouldn't survive the poison much longer, and in his current state there could be no hope of getting anything more out of him.

Sitting back in his chair, Heolstor took his time scrawling a conclusion at the bottom of the parchment, then he turned back to the two guards. "Release him, you can leave where he is now." They complied, allowing Thorongil to sag limply to the ground at Heolstor's feet. Heolstor rubbed the back of his neck where the muscles were tense and beginning to ache from the strain of the day. "Go get Mehdal."

**---o—oOo—o---**

A new course of action was forming in Araedhelm's mind. It wasn't much of a plan, and the details were slow in coming, but the key was, it was a plan of _action_, as an alternative to a plan of sitting around thinking optimistic thoughts.

The men below never seemed to relent in their noise-making, which made his task all the easier as he crept along the ridge to his left. It sloped gradually, and there was plenty of trees and brush to cover his movements. His aim was to get close enough to the largest of the tents, the one he assumed Heolstor occupied, and find out what plans Heolstor had. As unlikely as it was that he'd be able to get close enough, and actually hear something worthwhile, he wanted to at least try before going back and getting his men as backup.

The tent was actually quite ideally located. Backed up against the ridge as it was, he could almost have accomplished his task by staying on the ridge in a position directly above it, but not quite. Still, if he continued down the ridge, then doubled back under it, through the foliage the ran beneath it, it was possible to get directly behind the tent without being seen.

At least that plan worked out in theory. Now he had to put it to the test. The brush along the base of the drop-off _looked _dense enough, but he wouldn't know for sure until he got there. He was just reaching the place in his plan where that question would be answered.

Through the trees he kept an eye on the clearing, as he crouched to edge to the right against the steep rock wall and slipped into the protection of the underbrush as he moved along it. Once he was in position, as close to the tent as possible without losing his cover, he knelt, shifting with a wince the when the incredibly coarse grass prickled his knees even through the cloth of his pants.

There was a conversation going on, he could hear that much, but between his rough breathing and the adrenalin- and exertion-induced thudding of his heart, he spent a few frustrating moments trying to distinguish actual words. All the while, he had the maddening feeling he was missing vital information. Thinking like that, of course, didn't help slow his heart-rate, and it was only after several more neutral, divertive thoughts that he was able to reliably hear anything. The first voice he heard was, disappointingly, not Heolstor's. But the replying voice reassured him that he was listening in on the right conversation.

"…understand that, my Lord."

"I have given him some already. Only give him more as necessary."

"Forgive me, my Lord, but how will I know if he needs more? I do not feel entirely…competent, in this matter."

"I think you'll be able to tell. You may read the notes I have taken, and if any of the symptoms listed there become more serious, give him more. I'd like him alive if at all possible."

"If he should…die, my Lord, I—"

Heolstor was obviously tired, and obviously becoming more than a little exasperated with the other man's hesitancies. "Mehdal, I need you to focus on what I'm telling you instead of making excuses. This is the kind of response I would expect from weaker men than you. If you turn into a spineless incompetent, I'll… Just _don't_. Don't go there."

"Yes, my Lord. I did not mean to imply I would be unable to handle it… I will read your notes, and I will take care of everything else, as you have instructed."

"Good. I know you will. Let me explain it to you in a little more detail." There was the noise of clinking glass. "_This_ is the antidote. Do not get it mixed up with the other vials, and do not give him more than a few drops at a time. A few drops can combat the poison for some time, although scattered doses won't even begin to purge it. Just keep him alive until I return. And in Eru's name keep all those idiot friends of your brother's away from both of the prisoners."

"I will, my Lord."

"Any other questions?"

"Do you know how long this will take?"

There was uncharacteristic indecision in Heolstor's answer. "I…cannot be certain of an exact time. I hope, if everything goes as planned, I won't need too much time. However, you can't assume _anything _will go as planned. At this point, many things could go wrong. I don't consider Ecthelion or Thengel to be among the easily gullible. I don't underestimate their intelligence. Even though you know I prefer to eliminate as many risks as possible, I have to tell you there are more variables than I care to admit."

"I understand, my Lord."

"You are the only man amidst this camp full of short-sighted idiots who does. I count on that a great deal." There was a smile in Heolstor's voice, and Araedhelm guessed this was probably one of the rare occasions where the man came close to giving a compliment. Of course, he tempered the near-praise with a stern warning. "Be sure you do not disappoint me."

"I will do everything I can not to. Before you leave… Out of curiosity, my Lord, did you get any useful information out of him?"

Heolstor gave a grunt, not of total disappointment, but neither of total satisfaction. "The poison worked, there's no doubt of that. Later, when I have the chance to analyze what he said, I may find some things of interest. However, he wasn't as forthcoming as I'd hoped he would be. That is why I'm counting on you to keep him alive in my absence."

The conversation ended there, but it took Araedhelm a while longer process it all, and even longer than that to gather himself together enough to move elsewhere to finish his thoughts in comparative safety. It was a lot of information to take in, especially since he'd missed the first half of the conversation, and his brain was working to fill in the blanks.

There was, obviously, the most cheerful news to contemplate. Heolstor was leaving. Of course, Araedhelm hadn't heard where he was going, but he could make a dismal guess. But for his current priority it was encouraging. With any luck, Heolstor would take half the camp with him. Araedhelm knew he couldn't exactly storm the camp. Even though he'd already decided he'd need to go back and get his men before he attempted anything, he knew himself, plus the additional handful of men, still wouldn't make odds worth contemplating. The answer to that problem, a more stealthy approach to rescuing the prisoners, was half-formed in the back of his mind.

But there were some blanks that couldn't be filled in satisfactorily whatever way he looked at them. His elation at finding out that Heolstor would be moving out was eclipsed by one word in particular: poison. There were a lot of sentences, too, that had him worried out of his mind with the implications. _"…did you get any useful information out of him?" _certainly didn't do anything to allay his fears. Had they used some kind of truth serum on either Thorongil or Théoden? No, Heolstor had specifically said _poison_. Besides, at the beginning of the conversation they'd been discussing an antidote of some kind. An antidote to keep the prisoner alive.

He knew he couldn't let himself dwell too much on who the recipient of the poison had been. The thought of a child, any child, undergoing poisoning and apparent inquisition made Araedhelm's want to rip Heolstor to pieces. The thought of _Théoden_—his prince—undergoing that was worse. And if it wasn't the case, what a wonderful alternative that left him with. By all means, let them have tortured his captain. That was much easier to contemplate._ I swear by all the gods they're going to regret it either way. _At least he could hold to the knowledge that whichever one the poison had been given to was still alive. This "Mehdal" had better do his job and keep Théoden and Thorongil both alive, or he wouldn't be in trouble with Heolstor alone.

He reached the spot where he'd left Rynawl with his lead rope tied securely to a tree branch. As he approached, Rynawl seemed to give him an exasperated look that said he knew the demand that would soon be made of him. Even if his horse wasn't exactly happy with the decision, he looked a whole lot more resigned than Araedhelm himself felt. It seemed wrong on so many levels to be leaving his prince and his captain behind now that he'd just found them, even if he was technically going _in order _to rescue them. While he was off "rescuing" them, anything could happen to Théoden or Thorongil. Heolstor seemed to keep his men in line with an iron will, but who knew if this more subdued lieutenant would protect the prisoners as he'd been ordered.

Unfortunately, before he could even begin to consider the suddenly all-too-alluring aspects of revenge, Araedhelm recognized the agonizingly long list of preparations he still had to make. Even though his path was now laid out before him, the route mapped sketchily in his head, he knew the road _back_ to Halodawn was going to be even worse on his considerably shaken and thrumming nerves than his first ride through the hills.

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**To be continued...**

**Note on the elvish: **I'm really no good with languages, but I did the best I could looking up the elvish, and tried not to mutilate the grammar too badly. I wasn't sure how best to include the translations--I hope putting it side-by-side wasn't too disruptive. I know I find it even more disruptive having to scroll down to the bottom of the page for each sentence. I'd be interested in hearing people's preferences for future reference... ;-)

I'm always excited to receive reviews, but this is one of those chapters in particular where I'm especially curious to hear what you think. So please, don't hesitate to press that button below, and make the author's day. -g-


	28. Reinforcements

_**See first chapter for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes. **_

**A/N: Hey all! I'm leaving on vacation in a couple of days, and I'm going to be gone for two weeks. Since it's going to be a car-trip of an unpredictable nature, I won't be posting during that time. I am, however, going to try to get up one more chapter before I go. ;-) Sorry if review responses are sporadic, or delayed… And I'm sorry I still haven't gotten back to a few of you for the last one! I'll be sending off your responses soon. :-)**

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The stark relief on his men's faces as he walked into the low-ceilinged main room of Mannalic's house was enough to reassure Araedhelm that, if only for _their _sakes, coming back to Halodawn was not a complete waste of time. The soldiers, who had been situated in various positions around the room, rose to greet him. Mannalic, gracious and impartial host that he was, had boarded all five of them in his own home.

"Sir, I can't tell you how happy we are to see you."

Araedhelm smiled sympathetically at the blond-haired man— Aeron, ever the spokesman of the group—and put a hand on his shoulder in greeting and silent apology. He was becoming more and more intimate with the misery that accompanied prolonged waiting, especially in circumstances where so much needed doing. It was easy to see the suppressed anxiety and restlessness in the eager but somber hazel eyes in front of him.

"I'm sorry to have kept you all waiting here without word. But I have good news to reward your patience."

Every face lit up at the implications.

"Then you have found them?"

"Aye, I have found Heolstor's camp in the mountains to the North of here." Araedhelm smiled kindly at the boyish exuberance of the man to his right, who already had his hand on the hilt of his sword. Even the more responsible Aeron looked like his enthusiasm was about to get the better of him if he wasn't given something to do soon. He definitely could sympathize with _that_ emotion. Still, some semblance of control was needed, even if the smile threatening to take over his entire face completely belied his sternness… "I don't think there's a call for swords _quite_ yet." Around the room hands crept sheepishly away from sword hilts.

"But we will be going to after them, Sir?" The young man in front of him had his hands clasped behind his back as if the thought of drawing his sword had never occurred to him, even though Araedhelm was certain he'd seen the fingers of his sword-hand twitching along with the rest.

"Four of you will. One of you must return to Meduseld with news for the King."

There was a collective, ill-concealed groan among the men, followed quickly by a unanimous attempt on each man's part to look as able-bodied and battle-ready as possible. Araedhelm tried not to laugh. He really did. But the effect of all of them reaching the same conclusion and simultaneously snapping to attention was too comical not to warrant a smile. He'd expected them to be ready to go, but there was more than a little eagerness vibrating through the small room. Apparently a small town like Halodawn held no charm for five soldiers with them sole mission of rescuing their prince and Captain Thorongil on their minds, and being the one singled out to go back home empty-handed wasn't high on their lists either. Araedhelm was about to make a weak attempt to convince at least one of the men that going back was, actually, the more desirably heroic of the two missions, or use some other similar ploy, when Mannalic's voice piped up from the doorway of the next room.

"None of you need be left behind, if you will accept the services of one of the men from this town as messenger. I have more than one man willing to go." He cleared his throat and looked slightly embarrassed. "I didn't mean to intrude, I only heard you mention something about sending a messenger, and thought I might offer the services of one of our young men in that regard."

Araedhelm didn't torture his men by pretending to consider the offer for more then ten seconds. "That is generous of you, Lord Mannalic. I'm sure we're all of us very grateful indeed for your offer."

"Good, I'll tell him to get ready then, and you can give him the message you'd like him to take. I'll also see to it that some extra horses and provisions are provided for you and made ready." Mannalic nodded to him and slipped out the door.

The five men were openly grinning, and Araedhelm couldn't fault them. The hostages had been found, and they were about to be given the honor of rescuing them. "Well, stop standing around and finish packing," Araedhelm barked in his most commanding tone.

None of the grins faltered, and their formerly subdued and supposedly respectful young leader replied with unusual cheek: "Sir, we were packed and ready to move out _hours _ago. Whenever _you _areready. Sir."

**---o—oOo—o---**

The first ten times Thengel hadn't had the heart to point out to Morwen the repetitiveness, not to mention needlessness, of her actions. However, as the days of waiting dragged on, and she continued to go through the same ritual every day, he was beginning to wonder if for her sake, and his own sanity, he might say something.

Something.

The question was, what "something" could he possibly say? He knew his wife was a resilient woman, but at a time like this, with someone standing between her and her child, she could have an unpredictably explosive temper. After yelling at him, she might end up sobbing on his shoulder, which would probably be good thing, since he hated seeing her bottle her emotions up like she was, but watching her cry wasn't exactly _better_…

Still, he had to say something. From his position in the corner of the room, Thengel had been watching her with worry, as she went about her daily tasks in an unfocused haze. She operated, doing what was necessary: eating, sleeping, and speaking hardly a word to him, and even less to anyone else. There'd been a brief flurry of raw emotions right after they'd received the news, and then life had settled, more or less into…this. Théoden might be in danger, but life had to go on unfolding even while they waited.

He was beginning to think Morwen truly didn't comprehend what she was doing half the time. Like now. She drifted aimlessly between rooms, like some restless and ambivalent ghost, before staying more-or-less in the same area as he was. Even if most of her actions appeared erratic, she'd at least become predictable in eventually choosing this room. He'd chosen his vantage point for that very reason.

It was the largest room, the room that joined all their rooms together. They usually ate their private meals here at the table Thengel was currently sitting at. Along the other wall there was a chest with some of Théoden's toys. Above it, a long shelf, situated at a level low enough for a child's reach, and stocked with many familiar and often-read books, most of which Thengel could remember reading aloud when Théoden was a toddler.

Morwen still couldn't seem to stay in one place, her hands automatically seeking something to do, even though the servants—more efficiently thoughtful now than ever—made her labors superfluous. None of them realized that the true kindness might be to leave a few things for their Queen to clean up after.

She finally settled on a task she'd redone more than once since they'd received Heolstor's letter about his hostage. She ran a hand fondly across the titles of the books, and then let it slide down to trail along the edge of the shelf. Stooping, she began to "straighten" Théoden's toys—which were already perfectly neat and orderly. She was handling one of Théoden's wooden practice swords, when Thengel finally cleared his throat.

"Morwen."

"What? What is it?"

She spoke quietly, as if speech too were only an automatic reaction. He didn't get the feeling she'd actually comprehended his presence. "Morwen, please…come sit."

"Why? I'm…"

"You're running yourself ragged. Please, come sit with me. Rest a while, you're looking pale." She was, too. As she crossed the room to sit across from him at the table, he got a closer view of her pale complexion. It looked even whiter in contrast to her dark hair, which was curling softly around her face in uncharacteristic dishevelment. "Morwen, we need to talk," he urged gently.

"Talk," she repeated hollowly, looked at him with haunted eyes. "Is this where you tell me there's nothing I can do, so I should stop worrying myself sick over it? Is this where you tell me everything's being done, and I need to stop thinking about what could be happening to our son?" A sob caught in her throat, and she mercilessly swallowed it back, but her eyes were turning glassy with tears. "Is this where you tell me that everything's going to be alright? Is this where you tell me that Théoden isn't going to…" A single teardrop escaped her eye, releasing the torrent. Unable to hide them now, she let head slid forward to rest on her outstretched forearm and began to sob.

Thengel rose and moved to the seat next to hers, unhesitatingly reaching out to enfold her in an awkward one-armed embrace. More willingly than he'd dared hope, she shifted towards him to accept the comforting touch. But there was still some unspent fire in mixed in with her grief.

"Don't you tell me it's going to be alright, don't say it, don't pretend everything's alright, because it isn't—"

"Morwen…"

She tilted her head to face him through her tears. "He's going to kill him, isn't he? Heolstor killed Eothald, he's planned this for years. He has no sense of honor left, and he's going kill Théoden no matter what we do. Don't tell me—"

"No." He reached around with his left hand to tuck back a strand of black hair that partially veiled her face. "No, I won't tell you everything is alright. I know it isn't. But it _will_ be. You have to believe—"

She stiffened, pulling slightly away. "No, do not say that either. It's just as much a lie. You have no way of knowing if _anything_ will be alright. Don't say it just to try and comfort me. None of us know anything for sure about the future. The only thing _I_ know is that that man has Théoden, and no scruples about hurting innocent children to get what he wants."

Thengel closed his eyes briefly, feeling equally the anger behind the statement. "Very well. I won't say that either."

He ran a hand over her somewhat snarled waist-length hair. Searching for words, he continued the soothing motion, eventually gathering her thick hair it at the nape of her neck and moving it to one side when he felt how hot her skin was. She seemed to accept his presence again, calming somewhat, even though tears were still tracking their way down her face, her body hitching occasionally under his hand.

"You're right," he said at last, trying to reopen communication, knowing both of them needed to finish getting things out in the open. "None of us can know anything for certain about the future. But I can give you one reassurance. Or…make that _two_." He waited until curiosity won, and she made a muffled noise that might have passed as a begrudging inquiry. "Well. I do know Araedhelm will search for Théoden past the point of exhaustion. And I, for one, think having a sleep- and possibly food-deprived—and hence particularly irate—Lieutenant Araedhelm wandering the countryside in search of their son ought to be enough to cheer _any_ parents' hearts." Encouraged by the hiccup-almost-turned-snort-of-laughter he was sure he heard between a shuddering sob, he continued, "And for another thing, should that traitor dare lay a hand on our son, we can rest assured that, whoever the fool might be, he would have to go through one very protective and thick-skulled captain by the name of Thorongil who loves our son very much, and would die before seeing him hurt." She was more pliable now, and willingly allowed him to guide her head to rest on his shoulder instead of the table. "So there you have it: we have two very angry and very determined men doing all that can be done for Théoden."

Morwen laughed shakily. "You should have ordered Araedhelm to bring Heolstor back alive, though."

"And why would that be, my dear?"

"Because there happens to be one particularly angry and determined mother in Edoras who wouldn't mind having a reason to use a sword on his neck."

Thengel chuckled, squeezing her shoulders gently. "Ah, another reminder why you never want to get the Queen of Rohan mad at you."

They were weak attempts at humor, but Thengel didn't care how feeble they became as long as he could feel the tension draining from her as she leaned tiredly against him. Morwen swallowed hard, and he felt a few more tears leak into the fabric of his shirt, but her crying seemed to be tapering off.

"I'm so scared for him, Thengel."

There was no response for that, except to continue to hold her, and try not show her just how scared he was as well.

With a spark of her old spirit, she finally pulled away from him to sit back, wiping her now blotchy face and red-rimmed eyes, and trying to straighten her now tear-dampened curls. At the sight, Thengel's mouth began to curve into a grin without permission.

Morwen swatted at his arm, smiling self-consciously. "Stop smiling."

"What? You look…"

"I'll thank you very much _not_ to tell me what I look like right now." Her mouth quirked as she rose, brushing the wrinkles ineffectively out of her dress. "I'm going to go and make myself a little more presentable before someone else sees me like this."

"I was only going to say you looked—"

She interrupted him as she glided towards the bedroom, "I _told_ you not say it."

Thengel sat back in his chair, a sensation of accomplishment spreading warmly through every limb. To keep company with his own list of worries, he had the whole other issue of feeling he'd failed as father to protect Théoden. But at least he could do _something _right, however small. At least he could take proper care of part of his family.

However, between his distraught wife and his next interruption—which arrived in the form of a servant knocking urgently on the door—there wasn't to be much peace for him this evening. He opened the door, apparently, too abruptly for the young man standing outside, who nearly rapped his raised fist on Thengel's chest instead, but caught himself at the last moment. The urgency of the news he brought overrode his surprise, and he stammered out:

"My Lord King, a messenger has arrived from the Westmarch—from Halodawn—he says he brings news from Lieutenant Araedhelm."

"Bring him here immediately," Thengel directed, trepidation and expectancy warring. Morwen had reappeared to lean in the doorway, clutching a floor-length deep blue robe around her shoulders, her hair pulled loosely but firmly back, and her face dry if still somewhat flushed. Her eyes smiled bravely into his, the courage there making it seem impossible that bare minutes ago she'd been crying broken-heartedly on his shoulder. It gave _him_ courage to hear whatever news Araedhelm had sent him.

A breathless man was ushered down the hall and into the room. With some effort, Thengel kept himself from pouncing upon him without offering so much as basic etiquette. The man looked like he'd run all the way from Halodawn. He directed the man to a chair and poured him a glass of wine, which he took a large gulp of, but he was obviously just as anxious to give his news as Thengel was to hear it.

"Lieutenant Araedhelm…told me to bring you this…verbally." The man's voice was clear and strong, but as ardent and able as he was he was practically hyperventilating as he tried to relay his message and catch his breath at the same time.

Thengel came to his rescue. "I am eager to hear what the Lieutenant has to tell me, but, please, take a moment to breathe and finish your wine. You must be exhausted."

In return he nodded gratefully, finishing the contents of the goblet in front of him in a few more mouthfuls, and grabbing a couple of purposeful lung-fulls of air before endeavoring to speak again. "Thank you, my Lord. Lieutenant Araedhelm says he has found Heolstor's hideout. He has found the prince, as well as Captain Thorongil."

Thengel sank back into the nearest chair, and Morwen was at his side in an instant, their eyes locked on each other's with relief and joy. Thengel let Morwen ask some of the questions that were ready to burst from both of them.

"He is alright…Théoden? Araedhelm saw him and Thorongil? They are both alright?" When the messenger hesitated, a shadow fell across Morwen's excitement. "Please…tell us. Everything."

The man's attention darted from Morwen to Thengel and back again. "Lieutenant Araedhelm told me to tell you that they are both alive. He didn't actually get to see the prince. He thinks the Captain may be hurt, but he doesn't know how badly. But he does know they are _alive_, and that Heolstor plans on keeping them that way for now."

Relieved beyond words, Morwen fell gratefully into the chair Thengel indicated, and listened as her husband questioned the man on the finer details of his news. It was mostly of a more clinical nature. Facts. Locations. Morwen ended up not hearing much of it, until the topic wound back to what she was waiting to hear. The word "rescue" registered in her brain, and she was focused again. Thengel was pressing the poor man with restrained urgency.

"But Lieutenant Araedhelm, he plans on returning—with his five men—to Heolstor's camp?"

The man nodded. "Yes. He told me to tell you he thinks there may be a chance."

It took some willpower, but Morwen bit the inside of her cheek and kept silent, allowing Thengel to ask the questions. Babbling emotionally wasn't going to get her any clear replies. If Thengel looked like he was teetering precariously on the edge between control and its opposite, she was several stages beyond.

"A chance?" Thengel repeated.

"Yes, my Lord. Lieutenant Araedhelm told me that although the numbers were vast, as I have already reported, he thinks he may be able to come up with a divertive strategy for rescuing the prisoners."

"One that would avoid a direct _attack_?" Nightmarish images flashed through Thengel's mind, of some half-formed assault plan being implemented by Araedhelm and a handful of overenthusiastic men, too loyal to their reckless leader to care if the plan was insane.

"No, he specified I was to tell you that he would be looking for a sane plan of attack, and that if he could help it he didn't plan on attacking at all. He plans on using stealth."

"Will wonders never cease…" Thengel commented under his breath.

"My Lord?"

"Oh, nothing. Thank you. You have brought us all good news." _If a bit vague._

The man ducked his head, staying in that mandatory posture of badly-hidden guilt until Thengel asked, "What is it?"

"There is one more thing."

_Obviously, otherwise you wouldn't still be sitting here looking like you're about to deliver news of a death. _He winced inwardly at his own poor choice in analogy—and hoped it wasn't true. "What is it?" he repeated himself, drawing upon the, supposedly, ever-prolific kingly patience. That allegedly bountiful supply had disappointed him before, but at least he _sounded_ unboundedly patient. So far.

"Heolstor is coming to Edoras with some eighty men or so," the man relayed the news in a rush of cheated syllables. He jolted upright in his seat—nearly yelping in surprise—when a voice in the doorway spoke without warning.

"Your source is very accurate, whoever he is."

Thengel sat completely still, not so much as glancing up. This was a voice that had been haunting his waking and sleeping moments of late. A voice coming from a throat he was itching to strangle. He sensed more than saw his wife stiffen likewise at his side. Knowing her, and recalling her own words about being more than willing to use a sword on this man who had betrayed his country as a whole, and them personally, he knew Morwen would love to inflict some damage of her own on Heolstor.

Heolstor entered the room like a breath of bone-chilling fog, unaffected in the least by the fact that his presence had turned everyone in the room either rigid with anger or with fear. Far from it, he enjoyed the power had had, especially over the King and Queen, who were helpless to retaliate. He knew it, and they knew it, that was the beauty of the situation. It felt such a triumph to be returning to Edoras as a ruler instead of a mere captain. He didn't have respect anymore, true, but he had power, the thing he'd craved and sought after through all these years of waiting. He wasn't just going to revel in it. He was going to rub it in until it hurt.

These two, who had gained their positions only by chance of being born with noble blood, they would bow before a man who had _earned _his power.

**---o—oOo—o---**

Araedhelm gave his men some time to absorb the sight that was Heolstor's camp. The journey through the foothills had been cold and muddy, and they were all miserable, but it was still somewhat of a shock to come upon the unexpectedly large, partially man-made clearing so abruptly. Even though a great number of the men had left with Heolstor, as Araedhelm could see, they were still a large enough "army" to bring his five men to a stunned stand-still at sight.

"So many of them… I knew Heolstor was planning something. But _this_…"

"Precisely my reaction," Araedhelm replied grimly. "And there were more when I was here."

Aeron, the short, blond-haired man, unanimously favored as spokesman out of the five was, naturally, asking the questions for them all. "How many do you think he has taken with him to Edoras?"

"I can only estimate, but at least fifty from the look of it."

Aeron surveyed the daunting prospects. The daunting, insurmountable, demoralizing prospects. With more cheer than Araedhelm thought possible, given their situation, he asked, "What do we do next, Sir?"

No one had the right to act so confident in such disheartening circumstances, Araedhelm though sourly. Then he took the thought back, realizing dismally that the young man—who could be no more than one and twenty—was probably acting confident because he assumedhis commanding officer had a _plan_. Come to think of it, the other men had precisely the same expressions on their faces. _No pressure, no pressure at all... Just come up with something brilliant._

An inner fire, fueled by anger at Heolstor and determination to spoil his plans, had kept Araedhelm moving forward. Now he'd arrived at the crux. From here it was either the bitterest of defeats, or the crowning victory. Emotion had to be laid aside in deference to careful planning on his own part—definitely not his strong suit. It wasn't that he had such a low self-image, he'd simply come to accept the fact that he was better taking orders from someone else. Despite his own seniority, he'd become used to that someone being Thorongil over the last years. There was something magnetic about his power over a group of soldiers. Araedhelm had seen it more than once: Thorongil saying in a few choice words something incredibly powerful. Or maybe it was the _way _he said the words.

If Thorongil was here—as he'd been vainly wishing with increasing magnitude—he'd have a few rousing words to say. Right now, _Araedhelm_ could have done with a few rousing words. Thank the gods these men looked willing and, mud-caked and drenched though they were, undiscouraged. Since no prolific speeches were forthcoming, they'd have to do with an explanation.

Aeron ran a tongue nervously over his lower lip. "We are taking a covert approach?"

"Well put," Araedhelm agreed. "Yes, unless each of you can promise me you're up to killing at least twenty men each in a full-on assault—and can convince me that _I _can do the same—yes, we're going to go about this covertly."

The men chuckled.

"Oh, I feel up to twenty, at least, Sir," Aeron replied, straight-faced.

Araedhelm chuckled too. "I think we'll try to be a little less obvious." He turned serious again. "If we can rescue them without raising the alarm we may be able to get a good head-start before they even notice their prisoners are missing. Here's what I have in mind."

He told them some of the details of his first visit to the camp, and how he'd been able to get close enough to eavesdrop on Heolstor's tent. The smaller tent that he'd observed Thorongil being brought to was a little further right along the overhang than Heolstor's, but still in as ideal a location if they were to sneak up from behind.

"What's more," Araedhelm explained. "While I was here previously, I was able to watch the camp for some time. Most of Heolstor's men are Dunlendings, but there are also a few mercenaries of varying races he's hired. Now, Heolstor has three different sentries," he pointed the sentries out, where they paced along the fringes of the clearing, "that change in shifts every couple of hours. The mercenaries, I think, are our main problem. They're cautious and alert when on watch. Fortunately, Heolstor took most of them with him, but there are still some here." He pointed out their small faction, grouped together, as before, around a single fire. "We'll wait until none of them are on duty, and strike when it's dark."

Aeron was nodding thoughtfully. "How many of us will actually go?"

"I think we must assume that they both may be in need of assistance." Araedhelm tried not to think of the image of Thorongil's limp form, being hauled between two guards. Or the poison. He definitely didn't want to think about the poison. But there was one important detail he couldn't forget. "Also, there is something I must get from the larger tent. I think I will bring two of you with me. As for the rest of you… We may have call for a distraction of some sort as back-up. Ideas?"

Aeron had a twinkle in his eyes that reminded Araedhelm of his son Rynan. "I have an idea for that, Sir. I think you can leave the distracting to me."

**To be continued…**

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**Whew, there are getting to be waaay too many OCs in this fic. I tried to get away without naming Aeron (also known as Loyal Soldier number 1), but it was not to be. He (and Laire) forced me to name him, honest! LOL. **


	29. Enemy Lines

**_See first chapter for disclaimer, thanks, and other notes. _**

**A/N: I hope you all appreciate just how HARD it was for me to get his chapter uploaded. I was packing, and cleaning, and running errands, and hyperventilating about having to pack and clean and run errands--and I STILL took the time to polish the chapter, add in a paragraph, and post it. Yes, you may grovel at my feet now, and tell me what a wonderful, self-sacraficing author I am... -bg- Hehe, J/K, you're all lovely readers and reviewers, and definitely deserve this chapter before I take off. But I hope you'll all understand if I am unable to respond to some of your reviews for the last chapter, and probably little to none for this chapter. I figured the reason you were reviewing was mostely 'cause you liked it and wanted more--consider this my thanks. :o)**

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**Chapter 29: Enemy Lines**

Araedhelm had rarely been as proud of any group of men under his command as he was now. If the soggy trek through the foothills had been depressing, this day, which was fading into night at last, had yet to improve. If anything, conditions had only gotten worse. They were treated to an even more thorough drenching—as the elements apparently weren't finished with them—returning this time as a misty drizzle.

All-out rain drenched you instantaneously, but this damp and constant wetness lingered, seeping right past every layer and into bone. Hard to believe as it was, as he haunted the perimeters waiting for the excuse to move and perchance banish some of the chill, Araedhelm knew there was the very promising possibility this drizzle would turn into a more full-bodied, cloaking mist. With that cover, they might not need a distraction.

And the plans for tonight's distraction were another source of satisfaction for Araedhelm. Ever since he'd verbally consolidated their course of action, Aeron had led his willing followers in a series of ventures to procure several "distractions", in case one should be needed.

Falling back a ways from the Dunlending camp so as not to be heard, Aeron and the other four men had alternately been constructing, baiting, and checking various roughly-constructed live-traps, intended for the capture of small animals. They'd been successful, capturing an assortment of squirrels and rabbits mostly, and a few rodents besides. All in all, probably three times more than what would be needed. Their purpose had been to capture some of the creatures and, if it became imperative to divert attention away from their mission for any reason, they would release a few. With the numbers they'd procured over the day, they could send a veritable stampede of the creatures through the camp. That ought to get a reaction of some sort. The men had been joking about the endless possibilities all day.

After applauding them for their creativity—Araedhelm couldn't think of a better plan himself—he'd watched their activities and tried not to smile too obviously. Nothing to worry about there, though, because every time his smile slipped into something larger, they'd just grin right back at him with that boyish exuberance. Araedhelm couldn't tell for certain if they'd missed his amusement and were including him, or if they knew he was laughing at them and simply didn't care.

After they'd caught a couple of rabbits, it was mostly frivolous and superfluous antics, but it kept them all from worrying a little less actively. Well, it kept the _men _from worrying more. Araedhelm found himself drawn back to watch the camp incessantly, unable to stay away for more then a quarter of an hour at a time, except for at mealtimes.

When Aeron sat down next to him, taking sips from his water skin, Araedhelm looked sideways at him with a smile of amusement that morphed into gratitude. Aeron's distraction had served a purpose already in distracting the men from pent-up anxiety and impatience and helping dwindle the hours away. Even if Araedhelm couldn't find escape from his own anxieties, he was glad the rest of them had. Aeron gave a face-splinting grin and nodded his acknowledgement before leaving.

However overboard they went with the preparatory arrangements, by the time the sky began to darken a more somber mood took the small band of men. By the time they were ready to put the plan into action, they were all subdued and focused.

A small ways back from the camp, Araedhelm gave his last instructions. Three of them were to wait on the opposite side of the camp with the "distractions", ready to implement them if and when the time came. Araedhelm and the remaining man would accomplish the rescue.

Araedhelm tried to picture what state the prisoners would be in. One of them was poisoned, and would probably need assistance. If, Eru forbid, it was the prince that was poisoned, he could be carried easily enough. If Thorongil were the one… Depending on how badly he was faring, it might take at least two men. And the prince, however brave he might be, would probably be more than a little frightened in either case.

As the men turned to carry out his instructions, he stopped Aeron. "Wait. I want you with me as well."

"Sir." Aeron nodded and followed close behind him as they began to creep into position.

"Are you good with children?" Araedhelm whispered.

"Sir?" Aeron whispered back.

"Are you good with children, soldier?" Araedhelm repeated, as if it were the most natural question for an officer to ask one of his men in such a dire situation.

"I…don't know, Sir."

"Well, you'll find out tonight, I think."

"I understand, Sir."

"Good." Araedhelm turned to the two men following him to give them one last briefing before they got close enough that talking would be off-limits. "Remember, I'm stopping at the first tent." He'd seen Mehdal leave the tent not too long ago to survey the camp and keep some order among them men, but there was no telling how long he'd stay away. And when Mehdal returned, there was still the question of how long it would take him to notice one of the vials was missing. "If everything goes smoothly, I'll be on to help you before you've even freed them, but don't wait for me. Keep going and get the prince out at all costs."

There were mutual murmurs of, "Yes Sir."

"Any last questions?"

"No, Sir."

They moved in, Araedhelm leading until the reached the first tent. He motioned them on as he dropped to his knees and moved the cloth far enough up that he could slip underneath. With his luck, he'd bring the whole tent down around his ears… But he got inside successfully, scanning the inside of the tent for the object of his mission. There was a small table off to one side with a lit candle on it, giving the small enclosure minimal lighting, but enough for him to find what he needed.

It was on that table that he knew he'd find the vial. He picked up several of the glass containers, holding them to the light. Two were filled with a similar clear substance, another with a kind of mossy colored, nasty-looking liquid, and another one that when a shade darker to murky greenish-brown. But then another vial at the end of a separate rack caught his eye, and he picked it up for closer inspection. It was filled with a deep amber liquid. _Mordor take it all… _Which one to chose? He decided on the one separated from the rest. If he took them all, as he was tempted to do, he'd be as good as ensuring that Mehdal would notice something was missing immediately, but taking the wrong one was a risk he hated to have take. But, if they didn't get out of here without Mehdal discovering them, everything would be lost. He'd have to hope Thorongil would be in a state of enough self-possession to tell him if he'd taken the right vial. That was, of course, if _Thorongil _knew what the right vial was. If he'd taken the wrong one, he'd have to make a second trip and pray he got as lucky a second time…

First making certain the stopper was firmly stuck in the vial, he wrapped the glass tube in some cloth and set it carefully in the pouch at his side. He contemplated blowing out the candle in the hopes that Mehdal would be come back tired and, assuming the breeze had blown out the flame, not bother relighting it, and not see something was missing until daylight. But that could easily backfire, if he did decide to relight it, and thus focused his attention more specifically on the table in order to do so.

He left the candle as it was and slipped back out of tent, letting out a carefully silent breath of air. He'd done it. One part of their mission down, the most important yet to achieve. The sudden desire to see how Théoden and Thorongil were fairing—a desire long tamped down—urged him to move to the next tent as quickly as was practical. The soggy ground muffled his movements, another unforeseen benefit of the rain. Perhaps Eru _did_ know what he was doing.

Araedhelm slipped into the second tent in the same manner he had the first, dropping to the ground and squirming under the flap. Although there was no candle in this tent, the nearly full moon outside was bright enough to illuminate the interior to some degree. It was enough to make out the silhouettes of the four forms gathered in the center of the tent.

Araedhelm gravitated automatically towards the shortest figure, knowing it belonged to Théoden. "Are you alright, little one?" The child started at his appearance, but composed himself with admirable speed.

"Yes," Théoden whispered, voice small but steady.

Reassurance on that account only channeled Araedhelm's worry in another direction. Apparently Théoden was alright, apart from being scared, and that meant Thorongil… Halting the thought, Araedhelm let his palm rest reassuringly on the shape of the vial under its protective layers. It would be the correct one, and it would be enough.

Sensing rather than seeing Aeron on the other side of the prince, Araedhelm left Théoden in his hands and directed his concentration on his captain. He feared what he would find. The other soldier was behind Thorongil, cutting his bonds. Just as Araedhelm was beginning to wonder if he was conscious or not, Thorongil surprised him by speaking first.

"I suppose you expect me to _move_ now."

Araedhelm swallowed the slightly hysterical chuckle of relief rising in his throat. Thorongil sounded tired, but completely coherent and in full mental capacity—if his intact sense of wry humor was any indication. "I'm afraid so, Captain," Araedhelm replied lowly, reaching out to grip his shoulder. "We cannot linger too much longer. Here, lean on me."

Thorongil's hand gripped his arm in response, and Araedhelm, together with the silent-but-helpful soldier who moved to his side, managed to get him to his feet. Araedhelm then transferred Thorongil's arm around his own neck, holding it there with his right hand and giving extra support by wrapping his left arm around his waist. The soldier mirrored his movements on the other side. Thorongil gave a low groan as he was successfully pulled upright, leaning heavily on the two men attempting to assist him. Araedhelm was only too glad to be able to aid him, but the very fact that his captain was accepting that aid without protestation was reason to be concerned. However, questions would have to wait until they'd put some distance between themselves and those who'd done this.

With foresight, Aeron had already guided Théoden over to the back of the tent and was lifting the cloth high enough for Araedhelm and the other two men to stoop under. Having done so with little grace but improvised efficiency, and knowing Aeron would be right behind him, Araedhelm moved with his burden as fast as he could, the three of them awkwardly limping along in a half-crouch through the tall grass and undergrowth.

They had almost found a more comfortable rhythm to move by, when a noise startled them, nearly causing all three of them to stumble. Araedhelm had almost been able to drown out the sound of the wolves howling in the distance, but now those howls sounded unexpectedly near. The lonely cries kept repeating, coming closer. Men, huddled around their campfires, automatically looked up to scan the surrounding hills. There was little danger with this many men and this many fires, but something about the chilling noise demanded attention. The five of them instinctively came to a halt, crouching in their positions until the camp became less alert.

_Come on, come on, look away already… _Araedhelm repeated in a mantra, as the moisture from the ground seeped into his clothes. Thorongil was taut with vigilance, but Araedhelm could feel the uncontrolled shivers shaking him.

Before the men in the camp could look away—or Araedhelm's own men release a few distractions—Eru provided a little interruption of His own. A cacophony of nearby excited howls and yelps of canine excitement heralded the sound of breaking twigs as a herd of four deer, wild with panic, plunged out of the forest and dashed through along the edge of the clearing. The sight of the fires only increased the creatures' fear. With ravening predators behind them, and brightness and men before them, the deer scattered across the clearing toward the shelter of the woods. Dunlendings and mercenaries alike were jumping up, nocking arrows as they ran, excited at the prospect of an easy meal and fresh meat.

None of the fugitives waited to see the outcome, taking advantage of the deer for their own purposes.

**---o—oOo—o---**

Morwen nodded her greetings wordlessly to Neylor, as the old healer opened the door for her and stepped aside for her to enter. Full of victorious condescension, Heolstor was in a generous mood and had allowed her to come and go within Meduseld unrestricted—if having armed and swarthy men watching you from every doorway and corner could make you feel unrestricted. She was, basically, allowed free range of movement. Neither she nor Thengel had been harmed in any way or prohibited from going about daily tasks.

The servants too were allowed to go about their routines and left alone, apart from being verbally terrorized by their rowdy "guests". The servants were even allowed to leave Meduseld and return to their homes at evening. Heolstor had of course first impressed them with the gravity of the consequences should any of them mention to anyone the goings on in Meduseld, and of the consequences should any of them try to leave Edoras. Not that there was much hope of anyone getting past the new guards that watched the gates.

What really made Morwen's blood boil were the rumors circulating, insidious rumors that she could do nothing to change. It was common knowledge that Heolstor had returned, much to the general populace's initial confusion. Wasn't he a traitor? The man half the country was in an uproar to apprehend? None of the common people knew exactly how much of traitor Heolstor really was, but they knew he was one. _Now_, rumor had it that whole report had been vastly exaggerated—no, more than that, it was a downright lie. A mistake had been made. Heolstor was back, and his name cleared. Morwen wanted to march out, gather the people together, and tell them every detail of the truth.

Of course, in the telling, she would be killing her son.

She and Thengel had talked very little since Heolstor's return. Numerous glances were exchanged, but despite their illusion of freedom, privacy to talk in was scarce. Besides, neither wanted to talk about the choice they might soon face. The choice of country, over their own flesh and blood.

It was men like Feldon who were paying the price. Men like… Morwen felt a flood guilt when she thought of another man, whom she'd all but forgotten for far too long. The messenger she'd sent when Thorongil had been imprisoned—a man by the name of Halef—had never reached his destination, nor been able to deliver the message to Thengel. It shamed her to realize that, in all the chaos of so many things happening all at once, she'd scarcely stopped to worry for him when he hadn't returned, or to grieve when she'd heard the news that his body had been discovered—not far from Meduseld—by one of the returning search parties. Well, if she had failed in all that, she certainly wouldn't fail in honoring his memory by remembering him with gratitude for what he'd died in order to attempt.

And there were the living she needed to express her gratitude to, as well. Urged by concern, questions, and—admittedly—boredom, Morwen had come to see how Feldon was fairing.

"How is he?" she asked Neylor softly.

From the bed, the man in question answered for himself, "I will survive, my Lady."

"I'm glad to hear it." Morwen walked over to the side of the bed with a smile.

Naylor chided Feldon as he tried to prop himself up on his elbows at the queen's arrival. "Survive? I never said you'd survive. That's a bit presumptuous of you to just assume. At the rate you're going you'll rip out all my careful stitches and bleed to death yet."

Feldon and Morwen traded wry looks at the characteristic string of doom-saying from the healer. Then Feldon cleared his throat and responded dutifully, "I wouldn't dream of ruining your work, Master Healer."

Neylor eyed him austerely under his bushy eyebrows. "See that you don't, _Master_ Feldon." Gathering the folds of his loose-hanging garments around him, he made his way unhurriedly into the adjoining room.

"So, in _your_ opinion, you think you're going to survive?"

Feldon snorted. "I'll survive. Neylor says I lost 'more blood than I'm allowed to', and I'd probably look about as steady as newborn colt if I tried standing just yet, but I'll survive." He paused. "I'm sorry, my Lady."

"Sorry for what?"

"I'm sorry I couldn't protect your son. I cannot say how sorry I am, or how many times I've returned in my mind to those moments when he was captured, seeing what I could have done differently, if—"

"Don't." Morwen held up a hand. "_Don't_. Don't go back there, or I'll have to start thinking over my actions as well. I think if any of us try to live in the past right now, we'll all wallow in our guilt until we're of no good to anyone. None of us wanted Théoden to get captured or hurt. That's what it all comes down to. That's all it comes down to. Please don't apologize to me. I should be thanking you."

Feldon watched her silently, as she'd wrapped her arms around herself in what might have been a ward against the chill in the room, but looked more like a posture of unconscious self-comfort. "I only wish I could have actually _done_ something while I was busy getting myself oh-so-heroically wounded protecting the Prince," he said, in an only half-jokingly self-deprecating tone. "I really do feel honored, my Lady, to have had the chance to try to protect your son with my life. I only wish I _could_ have."

"I know. That is why I thank you. I know you tried."

Deep down, Morwen was beginning to wonder if too many good men were getting hurt or killed—or were _going_ to get hurt or killed—for this cause. There was an aching clash in her heart between wanting her son back at all costs, and the pain of possibly condemning men like Feldon and Thorongil to their deaths to have him safe again. She looked at someone like Feldon, and all she saw shining back was loyalty and willingness, and she felt so immeasurably selfish. These men had families, too. In gaining her son, she might be killing others' fathers, brothers, husbands, or sons. Looking at Feldon she also realized it wasn't her choice. These men would go on trying to save Théoden, even if she had had enough self-denial to tell them to stop.

"He was very brave."

Morwen didn't have to ask who. "That's one thing I've never had to doubt through this whole catastrophe. I know, wherever he is, he's being brave."

"He's already so much like his father. So like a king. When I was shot from the saddle, he didn't let his pony panic and flee. He stayed to fight. Charged straight at their leader with a drawn dagger." Feldon snorted in exasperation, shaking his head fondly at the same time. "And I do believe he would have won, too, if he'd been a little older, and if the odds had been a little less impossible."

"He fought them?" It was impossible for her not to see the glaring similarities between Thengel and Théoden. Of course Théoden had fought. Retreating from insurmountable fights, or surrendering, was not one of his father's strengths either. "He wasn't hurt?"

"Yes, he fought, no, he wasn't hurt. Our enemies had some…leverage," Feldon said with distaste.

"That man, that…fiend." Again, there was no need to specify who was being discussed. "Playing his twisted games with Thengel is bad enough, but involving a child... When all this is over, I reserve the right to wring his neck." Morwen began fiddling distractedly with a strand of her hair, twisting it around her forefinger, untwisting it, twisting it again. "I suppose I should have said _if _all of this is ever over."

"Don't give up yet, my Lady."

Morwen bit her lip and shook her head slowly. "I'm trying not to, but how can I even think straight anymore with Heolstor breathing down my neck?" She stiffened when the door was pounded from without heavily enough for it to rattle on its hinges. "I can only _guess_ who that is…" she muttered resentfully.

"Lord Heolstor requests her Ladyship's presence immediately," a sarcastic voice bellowed from the hall, not waiting for admittance. Heavy footsteps retreated without waiting for a response either.

Feldon observed the queen's stooped shoulders sadly. "It's right about now I begin to feel completely useless."

"There's a lot of _that_ feeling going around Edoras these days, I think. Just rest and regain your health. Believe me, you'll be doing something worthwhile. If I know Théoden, he's as worried about you as you are for him. You aren't going to disappoint him, are you? He'd want you to get well."

"That I can do, my Lady. It may be the only thing I _can_ do… But I will see if I can manage it."

As she stepped out into the hall, Morwen gathered all her turbulent emotions together and locked them away for later reflection. She pulled her shoulders back, held her head high, and made her steps measured and deliberate. She would face Heolstor, every time her presence was "requested", with all her remaining dignity.

When she entered the room and saw Thengel sitting across from Heolstor at the table, and looking so drawn and tired, she held herself back from rushing to his side. She crossed the room leisurely and sat down next to her husband, surreptitiously sliding her hand into his under the table. "I have come, as you requested, Lord Heolstor," she said frigidly.

"So you have, dear lady. Considerate of you to be so prompt." Heolstor smiled that maddeningly agreeable smile he'd perfected over years of wearing a mask in front of society.

"Well, it is not as if I have much else to do these days."

"Why didn't you tell me you were bored?" Heolstor chided.

"I should have. I know your goal is to keep me entertained."

"I strive for nothing else." Heolstor motioned to a timid servant girl standing in the door holding a platter of fruit. "Bring that here, girl," he ordered.

"Your meal is prepared." The servant girl's attention wavered from Heolstor to her king and queen. "Do you want it here?"

"Yes, yes, have it brought in right away," Heolstor ordered.

The girl hurried off, and was replaced in a few moments by the larger and more imposing bulk of an anything-_but_-timid Feorh, who didn't hesitate to glare with open hostility at Heolstor as she set a steaming tureen of soup in the center of the table.

"How are you feeling today, my Lady?" Feorh asked Morwen gently.

"The Queen is doing wonderfully, as you can see," Heolstor brushed her off, looking meaningfully in the direction of the door as he selected a bunch of grapes off the first platter.

Feorh disregarded him completely, ladling out some soup into a bowl and placing it in front of Morwen. "There, my dear, eat something. You're looking pale." She poured some milk into a cup as well, setting it within easy reach. "Humor an old woman, and drink that all down, too."

"I will, Feorh," Morwen responded, meeting the older woman's gaze with gratitude and lifting a spoonful of broth to her mouth.

Heolstor gave Feorh an annoyed glance as she sailed contemptuously out of the room in her own good time. Morwen smirked into her soup, but didn't dare laugh outright. There were two people in Meduseld who seemed to have the ability to suck all the haughty condescension and mock patience right out of Heolstor, just by being in the room with him. Perhaps it was because the two individuals were the only two who had the nerve to disobey him in every small matter they could, and didn't hide their hatred for him. Morwen's secret theory that Neylor and Feorh would have made a wonderful couple—or co-commanding generals of an army for that matter—was only being confirmed.

Heolstor recovered from Feorh's presence with a grimace of dislike. He couldn't afford to get rid of the Feorh, who was managing the servants efficiently despite the chaos, and keeping Meduseld running smoothly, making sure meals were prepared on time. Dunlendings and mercenaries had their talents, but culinary and house-keeping skills were not high on either of their lists. And Heolstor liked to live comfortably.

He could have rid himself of Neylor, which he was inclined to do on more than one occasion. He himself was proficient healer in his own right, with his knowledge of herbs. But he'd much rather not be stuck using his valuable time on trivial matters like healing unless it was necessary. They both knew he wouldn't disrupt the well-oiled functionings of Meduseld unless it were crucial. He couldn't afford that kind of time right now. They _knew_ it, curse them. _No time for pettiness… _

Heolstor cleared his throat and resumed the conversation where they'd left off. "So, you were informing me of your…boredom. I'm very sorry to hear it. Perhaps I can make amends by taking you both on an outing."

Thengel narrowed his eyes. "Just where did you have in mind?"

"I'm sure you could think of something."

Morwen knew he was only baiting them with that suggestion, and that she'd only be gratifying him with her anger, but she couldn't resist a haughty retort. "Why don't we go see my son, right now? As a matter of fact, why don't you have your henchmen bring him _here_? That would relieve my boredom I'm sure."

"That is an idea." Heolstor mused with exaggeratedly careful consideration. "I had something else in mind. What was it…? Ah, yes, I was just thinking how much I'd like to meet the Steward of Gondor."

"Ecthelion?" Thengel snorted incredulously. "Why would you want to go all the way to Gondor right now? Set your sights on Minas Tirith already—is Rohan not large enough for you?"

"Oh, you have me mistaken. I don't plan on going to Gondor at all—although I hear it's absolutely lovely this time of year."

Thengel frowned. "Then what?"

"Don't make a fool of yourself, Thengel-_King_. Surely you've figured out by now that if I had control over Eothald, I have control elsewhere. I couldn't be everywhere, but I had my spies. You've been making plans to meet with Ecthelion to repair your friendship."

Thengel smiled bitterly. "Yes, well, I'd all but put that aside. I didn't think meeting him was possible now. I _assumed_ being held prisoner in my own home, against the well-being of my son, _might_ put a bit of a damper on my social life."

"How very astute of you."

"I pride myself on my logic. I suppose that's one of the reasons I'm king."

"Quite. But please, don't let your social life suffer because of _me_," Heolstor insisted, reaching across the table to snag another cluster of grapes.

"Of course not. Now that I know you do not mind, I will be only too happy to go have a few glasses of wine with Lord Ecthelion, and tell him all about the latest developments in my life. No doubt he'll want to know everything about how wife and son are doing, and how Rohan fairs…whether he can help with any hostage situations."

"Doubtless," Heolstor concurred agreeably. "I only have one stipulation."

"There _would_ be one of those, wouldn't there?" Thengel rejoined, with equally hollow cheerfulness.

"I will accompany you as a reminder." Heolstor cocked his head to one side, popping a grape in his mouth and chewing slowly. "A reminder of who is in control, and who decides the topics of conversation."

Thengel glowered darkly. "I should thank you for taking such a specific interest in my social life, but that is quite unnecessary."

"On the contrary, your Majesty. I think my concern is well-founded. I hear you and Lord Ecthelion have been having some…discordances in your friendship. I wouldn't want Rohan to suffer politically simply because you can't maintain friendly relations with Gondor's ruler. That would be terrible—it could even mean war. If you don't take my advice, I fear the whole country might suffer. Your _son _might suffer."

Thengel winced. He should have known Heolstor would have known about Ecthelion. He was beginning to have more than a few suspicions about what exactly might have happened to his correspondence with Ecthelion… But that was ridiculous. Not even Heolstor was meticulous enough to have intercepted their letters each time they were sent, and make increasing but subtle changes of a hostile nature. Heolstor wasn't that meticulous, was he? If he had been… Well, it was just one more reminder of how long this treacherous snake had been plotting against his own country.

Secretly, he'd been hoping that when Ecthelion didn't hear from him he would know something was wrong. Still, that hope wasn't all gone. It had been days since Thorongil's return, and even if they sent a messenger to confirm their meeting now it would be several days more. Ecthelion might be alerted yet.

"I can see what you're thinking," Heolstor said, his patronizing expression laughing and mocking him.

Thengel's better sense always told him never to gloat openly at an enemy. Apparently his common sense wasn't paying attention. "I've seen how talented you can be. I know, for one thing, you have a vast knowledge of poisons. Have you been learning to read a person's mind as well?"

"Read minds, no. Read expressions…perhaps. Why don't I make a guess as to what you were thinking, and you tell me if I was right. You think, because you've sent no messenger with a reply, Steward Ecthelion is going to figure everything out and come with all haste to your support. Am I close? Let me tell you something, Thengel, King of Rohan. A messenger has already reached Ecthelion by now. I believe Ecthelion will be at the arranged meeting place the day after tomorrow. I also think he'll be looking for an explanation for all the rather…offensive letters he's been receiving. Too bad he won't get one. Or, at least, not the explanation he _wants_."

Some of the anger bled from Thengel as he was filled with more immediate feelings of defeat. Morwen's hand felt cold and trembling in his own. He couldn't bring himself to look at her right now. He'd wanted answers from Heolstor, clarifications about his mastermind scheme. Now he had them. "War?" he whispered, incredulously.

Heolstor laughed loudly. "That's a little premature and melodramatic of you. War doesn't exactly suit my plans. I'm not looking for anything quite so sensational. No, my Lord King, I think a simple estrangement between our two countries would be quite enough. At least until I've consolidated my power here."

* * *

**To be continued...**

**There, are you happy, Laire? I actually gave that poor Doomed Messanger both another paragraph, and a name. AND (I think several of you were inquiring about him) I also went back and checked up on poor Feldon. Am I good, or am I good? (And so humble, too! Heh. Sorry, it's all the reivews going to my head...) See ya guys after vacation. :o)**

P.S. Sorry for the menacing end-note I'm leaving you to hang on! But it's not all that unexpected, right? I mean, you all knew Heolstor wasn't planning on taking over so he could create world peace, or something... (...and next on Heolstor's post-Rohan domination to-do-list: Work toward a more Animal-Friendly Environment!) Hey... -ponders- You know, Rohan's color IS green...

Hehe, yeah, I'm in a goofy mood. :-P


	30. Rallying Again

**A/N: Back from vacation, back to school, back to posting...which I shall, hopefully, now be able to faithfully resume for some time. :-) I'm really sorry I wasn't able to respond to most of your reivews. I said I probably wouldn't be able to in the last chapter, but I was really hoping I'd still get around to it. The pace of our vacation said otherwise. ;-) But thank you for them!**

**And here is some long over-due H/C for Thorongil...**

* * *

**Chapter 30: Rallying Again **

"We can rest here."

Araedhelm expected some kind of remonstrance from Thorongil when he ordered the halt. He'd been watching Thorongil throughout their nocturnal journey, the brightness of the moonlight making visibility surprisingly good. It hadn't been quite good enough for him to check his captain for injuries as thoroughly as he would have liked to, however.

Thorongil had assured him there was nothing wrong with him that required immediate attention. Actually, according to Thorongil, there was nothing wrong with him at all. Apart from the poison, as Araedhelm had reminded him with frustration. Oh yes, there was _that_… But Thorongil tried to assure him about that as well.

After Araedhelm had described the vial he'd taken, Thorongil had confirmed his choice, much to both of their relief. Once he knew it was the antidote, Araedhelm had been ready to have him drink it all right then and there, but Thorongil had been adamantly against it. Something about having to take it in small doses over an extended period of time, and how he'd need Neylor to analyze the ingredients and make more if there was to be enough… Araedhelm didn't like the time-consuming sound of either setback, but Thorongil was insistently firm on both accounts.

Fine…_fine_. More waiting it was, then.

The last time he'd looked his captain had been sitting, more or less, upright in his saddle. Now, as they pulled to a standstill he was alarmed to see Thorongil slumped against his mount's neck. Araedhelm dismounted quickly, catching the reigns of Thorongil's horse with one hand, and placing his other one steadying on Thorongil's back. Rynawl's reigns were caught by one of the other men before he could take advantage of his master's inattention.

"Captain? Thorongil?"

Thorongil stirred responsively at the touch and the sound of his name. Araedhelm didn't know exactly what he'd been expecting—to find Thorongil dead? Certainly not. After all, the man himself had told him the poison had been momentarily taken care of by the dose of antidote Mehdal had given him. Thorongil had said he was fine. _Which means absolutely _nothing_, since he was talking about his own health_. _Don't be naive, Araedhelm. _

But Thorongil had been sleeping this time, thank the gods. Now that he thought about it, Théoden was nodding off as well, only he was sharing a mount and had Aeron to hold him in the saddle. Both of them had every reason to be exhausted.

"Thorongil," Araedhelm repeated, noticing that in the brief time he'd been reflecting Thorongil had begun to doze off again. "Come on, Captain, why don't you get a little rest on solid ground?"

Thorongil raised his head to blink groggily at Araedhelm. "Stopping already? Surely we haven't put nearly enough distance between us and them…"

"No, Captain, we're stopping _at last_. We've put more than enough distance between us for tonight."

"I thought we just…"

"Trust me on this. We've gone far enough for now." Araedhelm began helping him dismount. "You must have slept through most of it. I think, once again, your definition of 'fine' is a little off. So, no complaints." Araedhelm didn't stop talking as he forcefully guided him over to one of the sleeping mats the men had unrolled. He didn't focus so much attention on what he was saying as on continuing _to_ say something optimistic so that Thorongil wouldn't find the strength to argue, and would concede this match for once in his life. "You're in no shape to command at present, which makes me the leader of this cheerful little band. Just relax. Don't worry about a thing. I have Théoden safe and secure, we've made good progress, and I have the antidote. Get some rest."

Thorongil lay down willingly enough, and Araedhelm was just congratulating himself on getting his captain to yield without a word of protest—without a _single_ word—when Thorongil said very quietly, but perfectly coherently, "You are going to regret that comment, Lieutenant. We'll see who's in 'shape to command' in the _morning_."

"Whatever you say, Captain."

"Never patronize your commander, _Lieutenant_."

"Never, Captain. Of course not."

"You're going to regret this whole conversation tomorrow."

"I know, Sir. Sir…?"

"Yes, Araedhelm, I'll make your death quick, and tell Cwén you loved her. Any other last requests?"

"No, thank you, Sir." With a small smile hovering around the corners of his mouth, Thorongil's eyes closed, and he began to relax in sleep. Araedhelm added sincerely, "It's good to have you back, Captain—and, believe me, I can't _wait_ until you're in a suitable condition to take command again."

Araedhelm took first watch. He took most of the second, as well. After that, Aeron had insisted that there were more than enough of them to take the rest of night in shifts, and, left with no more excuses, Araedhelm had taken some rest himself.

He woke up with the sun, and to the muffled noise of the men already preparing to move out. He jolted to awareness more quickly than was usually his want when he remembered the events of the evening. As soon as he'd seen that both Théoden and Thorongil were still asleep, but well, some of the usual grogginess of early-morning—or in his case the grogginess of morning, _period_—descended upon him with a vengeance. He sat down next to where Thorongil lay, leaning back against a providential tree. So much for that fleeting second where he'd thought he'd conquered his dread of getting up in the morning.

As it turned out, Aeron was one of those people who were particularly grating on people like him early in the morning. He belonged to the paradoxical species of persons who not only _smiled_ during the earlier half of the day, as if there was something to smile _about_, but he was, apparently, naturally inclined towards cheerfulness in any event. Not that there was anything "natural" about being happy this soon after waking up. There was nothing that irritated Araedhelm in the morning quite so much as a grinning face. Fortunately, in this case, Aeron seemed to have had some prior experience in dealing with the early-rising impaired, as he tempered his exasperatingly buoyant attitude with a mug of something hot, which he held out to Araedhelm like a peace-offering.

"We're ready to move out whenever you give the order, Sir."

Araedhelm nodded at the relay of information, and Aeron took his cue to leave without expecting a more lively answer. Araedhelm had to smirk as he took a tentative sip out of the mug. The boy obviously knew what to do, and what not to do; his "previous experience" must have been traumatizing enough to tone him down a bit.

As the hot tea, as the contents of the mug turned out to be, began to do its partial work on his fog-ridden brain, Araedhelm fell to examining his captain more thoroughly by the light of day. From what he could see, Thorongil had been pretty well worked-over. There was a waxen, colorless look to his skin that reminded Araedhelm that the problem of the poison coursing through his veins was anything but dormant. Thorongil might have been doing fine last night apart from exhaustion, but this morning he was looking more than slightly ill. Or poisoned.

On top of the pale hue his skin had taken, Thorongil's face was overlaid was an ugly array of older, and more recent, bruises. His jaw and eye on the right side were swollen, and a gash, just beginning to scab over, was slashed across his left cheekbone and temple, just missing the eye.

It was most fortunate they were some distance from Heolstor, Mehdal, or any of their subordinates. Very fortunate for _them_. Araedhelm heart surged with anger at seeing the results of his captain's imprisonment. They hadn't even had him for that _long_. It made him sick to think of what might have happened to the captives if they'd been left prisoners for any longer. He didn't want know how many other bruises were concealed from his vision. He hoped with all his heart that Théoden had been spared from the violence Thorongil obviously had not been.

If anger wasn't among the healthiest of emotions to harbor for long, Araedhelm found his dark musings over creative ways to kill Heolstor to be at least stimulating. He was definitely feeling awake now.

Anger towards Heolstor did eventually have to burn out without an outlet for the moment, but anger towards himself was much more convenient, since he was always right there, waiting and willing to take a large helping of the guilt and blame.

"I think you had better work on hiding your emotions a little bit better, my friend. I can always read your face like an open book."

Araedhelm started, almost spilling the fast-cooling contents of the mug he held, and looked down to find Thorongil gazing thoughtfully at him. "I'm glad you're awake, Captain. We're ready to move out."

Thorongil grimaced as he pulled himself into a half-sitting position. Aches he hadn't had the time to notice before became manifest all at once, and when he tried too quickly to move fully upright, he instantly felt nauseous and light-headed. Araedhelm's arm was supporting him immediately.

"Do you need to lie back down? Is it the poison? Should I give you more of the antidote?"

Thorongil grimaced again as he tried to maintain his somewhat upright position. "No. Yes, I'm afraid so. And no."

"It is the poison, then? You're sure you don't…"

"Araedhelm, what I need to do is focus on getting to Meduseld and having a healer—in better condition than I am currently in—examine the antidote, to see if it can be replicated. From what I gathered from what Heolstor said, and given then nature and quantity of the poison I was given, what you have won't be enough. Not nearly." Thorongil smiled with weak encouragement at his friend's worry. "Besides, the way I'm feeling right now might as well simply be the side-effects of dehydration and hunger—not to mention one too many knocks to the head."

Araedhelm could have knocked _his _head a couple of times against the tree behind him. "I'm sorry, Captain. I'll get you something to drink and eat right away." Not wanting to leave his side just yet, Araedhelm called out to Aeron, who came over with food and a second steaming mug already in hand. Araedhelm helped Thorongil sit up and lean against a tree.

"Thank you." Thorongil gave him another wincing smile. "I think I can manage to feed myself."

"Suit yourself."

Thorongil took a couple of tentative bites, chewing on the left side in order not strain his swollen jaw. He glanced at Araedhelm between swallows from his mug. "Has anyone ever told you how disconcerting it can be to have someone watch you eat?"

Araedhelm laughed. "Sorry again, Captain. I guess it's just…good to actually _see_ you again."

Thorongil gestured vaguely towards his battered face. "And here I was just thinking what a mess I must look."

"That you do," Araedhelm said more seriously. "We'll have to clean some of those cuts." He pointed specifically to the red welts around Thorongil's wrists.

Thorongil lifted a hand to examine his wrist. The abraision was deep, and painful now he thought about it. "Well, maybe these could use some water and bit of bandaging, but apart from a few scratches here and there…"

"You're fine. I know, Captain. We've been over this over, oh… I'd say only about a couple _hundred_ times in various situations over the years. As always, would you please just humor me?"

"I didn't know you found bandaging people up so absorbing, but if you insist, help yourself."

Araedhelm began rummaging through his pack from some bandages. "'Bandaging people up' has never absorbed me, but I happen to have been fortunate enough to become friends with one of the most injury-prone men alive. And, seeing how I prefer to have said friend _alive_, I've taken up bandaging as a sort of hobby, you might say." He produced a spare shirt and began ripping it into strips. "In return, I fully expect you—" He ripped the shirt in half. "—to take full responsibly—" He tore the sleeve open. "—when Cwén asks what happened to my clothes."

Thorongil chuckled. "This is your idea, not mine. Don't you have any bandages along?"

"Ungrateful," Araedhelm muttered, finishing his mutilation of the shirt. "We left some of our spare provisions behind at Halodawn, to travel more quickly and lightly. Apparently _someone _left behind the pack with most of the medical supplies by mistake. Young, inexperienced solders…" Either his words, the tone he growled them in, or his expression—or some combination of the three—won another laugh out of Thorongil, to which he responded with an even darker glare. He let Thorongil finish eating, and then directed inflexibly, "Now, let us see what damage you're hiding under that shirt."

"It's _freezing_."

"Chilly."

"'Chilly' enough to freeze me solid the moment I take my shirt off. I'm cold as it is"

Araedhelm crossed his arms. "So, what you're telling me is you're so ill and in need of healing, that you'd be too susceptible to a slight…chill, to risk taking your shirt off?"

"Don't put words into my mouth like that."

"I learned from the best, Sir."

"I told you there's nothing I need bandaged besides my wrists," Thorongil protested.

"The sooner you give up, the sooner this will be over, and the sooner you can put on some clean clothes." Araedhelm drew a couple warm-looking items of clothing out of his pack and held them up temptingly, pulling them out of reach when Thorongil grabbed for them. "Not so fast. Do what I want, and they're all yours."

"You would blackmail an injured man?"

"Absolutely."

"And I thought Neylor was bad... Fine, have it your way." Thorongil attempted in vain to find a way of slipping his shirt over his head without it hurting too badly. It was all but impossible, since every inch of him seemed covered in bone-deep bruises.

Araedhelm watched the struggle, observed the filthy state of the shirt, and drew his knife, making quick work of the tattered cloth. Once he saw the concealed "damage" he found it hard to do anything else for a couple of wrath-filled minutes. The bruises on Thorongil's face had just been a prelude. The new ones came in every color and shape, from fist-sized to boot-sized. Maybe none of the spreading marks covering Thorongil's ribcage were in and of themselves what you'd call serious, but it wasn't to follow that they were painless. Far from it. It made Araedhelm feel sick with anger. Why hadn't Thorongil said something sooner? If he hadn't insisted on this…

"Araedhelm I'm—"

"You're anything _but_ alright," Araedhelm interrupted hotly. "_This_ is anything but alright. I suppose poisoning you and having you beaten to a bloody pulp was all part of Heolstor mastermind scheme? I have some news for him: he doomed himself the moment he laid hands on you. When I meet him next he's going to regret ever—"

"As I was saying, Araedhelm, I'm getting a bit _chilly_, here. If you have anything you need to finish up, could we get on with it?"

There was a pause, wherein Araedhelm clenched his jaw, and breathed heavily through the rage-induced adrenaline coursing through him. He was really beginning to wish they hadn't left the camp so quickly after retrieving Thorongil and Theoden. With the two of them safe—and now the evidence of what they'd suffered in front of him—he felt capable of taking on the entire camp. Easily. Just as along as he got to Heolstor first.

"Look, Araedhelm. I really do appreciate your vengeful enthusiasm, but you're going to have to come to terms with the realization that you may get overruled in this matter by her Majesty. If I'm not mistaken, Morwen has probably already made her claim on the life of the man who kidnapped her son. She's a lady, Araedhelm, and the Queen what's more. You're not going to win this round, my friend."

The bland way in which Thorongil stated everything stopped Araedhelm mid-mental-rant. Gradually, his anger lost its edge. But only a little. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe we could strike some kind of deal. Joint-executioners? She puts the noose around his neck, I pull the lever?"

"It might work. But hanging, Lieutenant? From the look on your face when I first woke up, I assumed you were brooding over some darker, more…painful demise for Captain Heolstor."

"It was just an illustration, Captain."

Thorongil shivered and looked pointedly at the clothes Araedhelm still held. "Are we finished?"

"Right. Here, let me help you with these."

After adding several layers to his previous outfit, Thorongil permitted Araedhelm to bandage his wrists and clean the blood from his face with minimal complaint. Then, with Araedhelm's shoulder to lean on, Thorongil pulled himself to his feet and limped to his horse, which the ever-prepared Aeron had saddled and waiting. Thorongil eventually made it into the saddle, with much poorly-concealed wincing and groaning, as every muscle and bruise protested no matter how carefully he went about it.

A drowsy Théoden had been set onto another horse, Aeron mounted behind him.

"Are you well, tithen-pen?" Thorongil asked, as their horses came alongside each other, speaking softly enough that it reached only Théoden and Aeron's ears. Théoden nodded with a sleepy smile. Thorongil smiled back. "We're on our way home, little one, we're on our way home." But even as he said the words, which were supposed to give encouragement, Thorongil had to wonder exactly what awaited them in Edoras.

**---o—oOo—o---**

The flame of the candle was flickering low on the wick, nearly smothered now by the pool of melted wax at its base. Mehdal landed gracelessly in the chair next to the table it rested on, half-closed eyes following the wavering dot of light as it bobbed up and down, refusing to simply fizzle and gutter out. Mehdal snorted in humorless self-disbelief. Was this really what he was reduced to: contemplating the tenacity of a _candle_?

Bemá. It _must _be late.

He hadn't felt like he could leave the men outside to their midnight hunt, but watching some hundred Dunlendings go after a herd of terrified deer could have ended in catastrophe. The actual hunt hadn't been so disastrous, although he had ended up ordering a few of the men not to pursue the lone survivor of the herd through the dark woods. However, the aftermath had taken some more serious overseeing.

Excitement had been becoming scarce after the prisoners had arrived, and resentment plentiful when they were scarcely allowed to so much as catch a glimpse of either the prince or Thorongil since. Little enough excitement though the deer were, and although Heolstor had made sure there were enough provisions to last them for a while, their latest catches provided "fresh blood", as it were. Something to fight over.

Mehdal had spent the last hour making certain the fresh meat was distributed evenly. Not that his labors were appreciated, they all would have much rather fought it out their own way. All through it, Mehdal had to endure the condescending looks of smugness and pity from the mercenaries, who sat silently around their fire, roasting their undisputed prize. The Dunlendings had tried fighting with them before over petty issues, and lost.

After all that work, some venison sounded delicious, especially compared to the hard bread and dried meat they'd been having every day. Be that as it may, there was no way Mehdal was exiting his tent until morning, and there was definitely no way he was going to go out and beg for some meat.

Great Bemá, wasn't _he_ supposed to be the one leading here? Heolstor would have had the whole camp groveling in an instant, and begging _him _for some of the meat, instead of the other way around. That realization almost got him back on his feet, marching out to order some food for himself. The notion subsided before he'd gathered enough energy. Enough was enough, and tonight had definitely been _enough_.

Licking thumb and forefinger, he pinched out the nearly dead flame, and moved to the cot in the corner for a few hours of well-deserved sleep.

He slept deeply, but when he woke up—at a later hour than he had intended to rise—he was left with a lingering sense of foreboding, caused by dreams of a wrathful Heolstor. It wasn't the first time he'd had that dream, but it still made him shudder. Despite his calm attitude, Mehdal knew Heolstor was not a man to be taken lightly, and he had proper fear of him.

Mehdal sat up on the cot, trying to clear his mind and get rid of the heavy dread he was feeling. A few mental repetitions of, _It was just a dream, it was just a _dreameventually made some of the panic settle. It _had_ been just been a dream, after all. Heolstor wasn't displeased with him. Not yet, anyways. Though he did wince inwardly when he remembered he'd forgotten to check on the prisoners just before going to bed last night. He'd been tired, but he still should have made certain everything was secure before retiring.

Now feeling more impelled by his dream than fearful, Mehdal went to the entrance of the tent and gave a firm command to one of the passing men to bring him some venison for breakfast. To his satisfaction, the Dunlending had complied with only a scowl, and a grunt that might have passed for an affirmation. Mehdal poured himself some water from one of the pitchers on the table and waited. Sure enough, his meat was brought to him, albeit with a ubiquitous death-glare from the bearer. Mehdal ignored the ill-will entirely, and enjoyed his breakfast.

The physical nourishment, along with the mental sense of accomplishment and control, went far toward bolstering his confidence. Flexing his fingers, which were going numb from the chill air, Mehdal rose in preparation to check on the prisoners.

Then he received his first warning sign. His gaze fell on the table he'd just been eating at, this time actually looking at its contents for the first time that morning. Remembering Heolstor's specific instructions, his eyes instantly sought out the vial that had been set aside. The vial full of the antidote he was supposed to give Thorongil a small dose of should the poison's symptoms worsen.

The vial that wasn't there.

Mehdal ran from the tent, not caring what the men outside thought of him as he raced towards the next tent and threw aside the flap to look inside. The sight of the empty tent brought him to his knees in despair. How could have let this happen? How would explain _this _to Heolstor? How could he have been such an idiot?

A particularly _intelligent_ voice, no doubt belonging to particularly intelligent individual, spoke up behind him. "The prisoners…they're not here."

Mehdal grit his teeth. "Who was on watch last night?"

There was a profound silence from the small crowd that had gathered behind him.

Mehdal rose to whirl on them, but kept enough of a grip on his anger to keep from lashing out. Not that any of them didn't deserve it, but he had to be thinking of the next move, instead of dallying in self-reproach or useless fury. He looked for the faces of some of the mercenaries, catching their gazes and motioning towards his tent. "You—all of you." He looked specifically at the mercenaries. "Come with me."

They followed him to his tent, for once losing both their disdain and complacency. They looked as shaken as him. After all, they could very well have just lost their wages for the last several months, all in the course of one night. They knew Lord Heolstor wouldn't be paying them for _this_ competent piece of work, even if it hadn't been entirely their fault.

Mehdal had already come to a decision. He faced a vital choice: go after the prisoners personally, or stay here and keep order in the camp. He knew what Heolstor would do. He couldn't leave the recapturing to anyone but himself, since it was he who would take the blame if the mission failed.

"The prisoners have escaped. I am going after them immediately, with several of you. I want the rest of you, with you," he pointed to the mercenary he knew to be more or less the leader of the other men, "to take charge of this camp." There were solemn nods of agreement all around. "Do not fail, or you will be lucky to leave this situation with your lives, much less your pay. Be ready to leave in ten minutes. I'll want your best tracker to be among those who join me."

* * *

**To be continued...**


	31. Convergence

**A/N: Boy, just last week I was back to "faithfully" updating, and I've efficiently messed it up already. LOL. Sorry about forgetting to post this yesterday!**

(Note: Chapter now replaced with edited version. Sorry for the mix-up, I accidentally uploaded the wrong copy of this chapter... :-P)

* * *

**Chapter 31: Convergence **

Jostling along over every rock, pot-hole, and root wasn't exactly what Thorongil would have called a luxurious way to travel. On the occasions when the jostling came unexpectedly, his head would whack into the wooden boards that composed the sides of the wagon they were riding in. Still, Thorongil had to admit this mode of travel, however crude, at least allowed him to catch a few fleeting moments sleep every now and then. It was only late afternoon, but to him it felt like it must be much later.

He was finding out just how inconvenient it was to be poisoned at a time like this. There had been times, many in fact, when he'd been wounded in battle, and adrenaline had most often given him the strength, artificial as it was, to finish whatever it was he was in the middle of. Which was usually a mess of some kind. Just like now. Only now, not only was the mess he was in the middle of more of a slowly unwinding nature, but his injury was a lot harder to ignore.

It was never a jolting or sharp pain, but an underlying weakness, an ache that penetrated bone. It felt like he was bleeding to death, his strength slowly draining out of his body. He just hoped the effects this poison had on the mind didn't leave him sobbing on Araedhelm's shoulder, pouring out every detail of his life. He'd always imagined himself as having a more dignified death than that. Maybe he should make Araedhelm promise to put him out of his misery before he reached that point.

Small, tremor-like spasms kept his fingers twitching, so he curled them into tight fists and buried them under the cover of the cloak Araedhelm had wrapped around his shoulders. He didn't want to think about the poison, or the results if Neylor couldn't reconstruct the antidote, so he didn't, turning his mind to more constructive reflecting and planning.

He'd been exhausted after his last near-death session with Heolstor, and after Araedhelm had rescued him he'd still felt more tired than pained. Due to that fact, he'd ended up dozing on his horse most of the time, and didn't remember most of their journey through the mountains, apart from hazy impressions. After that, he'd reached a peak were he'd felt both rested and reprieved from the effects of the poison. The dose of antidote he'd been given had undoubtedly been doing its work.

He'd assured Araedhelm of that fact every time the lieutenant would have stopped to rest for his sake. They all wanted to reach Edoras as soon as possible, and there was still the threat of Mehdal hunting them down, so they had driven themselves all day. As they got closer and closer to Edoras, however, they had to think of other things, the most prevalent of which was whether or not Heolstor was there. They had to assume he was. That being the case, he would probably have placed his own guards in control of the gates. Guards which might or might not recognize them.

Before they'd even had time to discuss plans in full, an opportunity had unfolded for them. As providence would have it, it turned out Aeron had an uncle who lived not far away from Edoras, and as they'd passed through the small village he lived in they met the man—a farmer—going the same direction on the road as they were, driving his cart.

When Aeron had greeted him, he had returned the greeting warmly. Well, perhaps his initial greeting wasn't exactly…welcoming. His uncle had greeted him warmly _after _he had ascertained for certain Aeron _was_ his nephew. Aeron had even humored him by raising his hands obligingly, and answering all obscure personal questions posed to him, when his uncle had started out by aiming a crossbow at him and interrogating him. Eventually, the old man had put away the crossbow and settled down, although he did give their group as whole a few appraising glances through narrowed eyes.

Thorongil wondered if this was the way all their family reunions began.

Overlooking the personality and general state of mental health of their deliverer, the opportunity looked like exactly what they needed and, after receiving a confirming glance from Araedhelm, Aeron had asked him if some of them could ride in the back of his cart.

Even if the crossbow-greeting hadn't been enough to tip them off, they soon saw in other ways that Aeron's uncle was a rather unusual man. In some ways his vivacity, even though he was on the older side of fifty, reminded Thorongil of Lord Mannalic. Except for the alarming look of eccentricity in his eyes, which seemed to border just barely on the safe side of madness. Or so Aeron had assured them—not without a not-so-encouraging smirk, suggestive to the contrary. But if Aeron said he was _safe _enough, if not _sane _enough, they believed he could be trusted with their lives, and that of the prince.

Certainly, the elderly farmer hadn't so much as blinked when they'd explained, with minimum details, the urgency of their need for haste and stealth. Even when they'd expounded more directly upon the danger there might be, and that Heolstor—"Yes, Heolstor, the dangerous traitor everyone's been after…"—might have control of the city, even then, the farmer had but nodded acceptance. It was impossible to say whether he simply took transporting them, who he could easily see were soldiers by their apparel, as his duty, or whether he really didn't care about his own health. Maybe he saw it as a chance to do something heroic…albeit mad. The mad part certainly fit in with his appearances so far. Thorongil winced at the thought of trusting the prince's life to some mad-but-heroic-and-loyal-lunatic. _Well, soldier, let us pray there's more sanity in your relatives than meets the eye. _

After Aeron's uncle had agreed with a completely un-reassuring grin—frighteningly reminiscent of some of his nephew's expressions—Thorongil, Araedhelm, and Aeron had held a conference and decided that their most urgent objective was to get Thorongil and Théoden into Edoras. Thorongil, because he needed skilled medical attention. Théoden, for many reasons.

For one thing, they knew if they kept Théoden here, out in comparative open, they'd be leaving themselves wide-open to attack. Even seven devoted soldiers wouldn't hold out very long against the men Mehdal was most likely bringing along with him in pursuit of them. Besides, they both agreed the most obvious place—right under Heolstor's nose—might be the last place Heolstor would expect Théoden to be brought. It might take some planning in order to get past Heolstor's men, but Araedhelm and Thorongil both decided, after scanning the heavily-laden cart, that it could be done with a little invention.

And, of course, they both knew his worried parents would wish to see him with their own eyes, as soon as possible.

Araedhelm had, of course, come along. Thorongil hadn't even tried to argue the merits of trying to smuggle two people in, versus three.

As for Aeron and the rest of the men, they had stayed in the village with horses. After a while, and after procuring some different clothes than their livery—which Thorongil, Araedhelm, and Théoden had already been hastily supplied by Aeron's uncle—they would also try to follow and get past the guards into Edoras.

And now Thorongil was here, waiting for the cart to reach the gates, and hoping their sketchy plan wasn't too idiotic to succeed.

At the back of the cart there were barrels of ale, then several barrels of grain, and a few baskets of vegetables. The three of them were situated at the very front, just behind the driver's seat. All the kegs and produce were covered with thick blankets, and they would be too, as soon as they got closer to Edoras. Once they got in, they would head straight for Araedhelm's home.

That was about as far as Thorongil could go in his planning. Now that he had no more food for thought—as if the thoughts of a moment ago had really been anything more than a distraction—he felt again more acutely the chill overpowering him in its frighteningly disabling grasp.

Up until now, he'd been doing a fairly good job of ignoring Araedhelm altogether, whose eyes he could sense following his every movement, or lack thereof, ever since they'd started traveling. After all, they were sitting across from each other, a sleeping Théoden safely between them, and his lieutenant had very little else to do to pass the time but worry himself into an early grave.

Thorongil gave a sigh, which turned into a shudder as another shiver ran down his spine.

"Captain…"

Thorongil sighed again, and this time it came out as sounding satisfactorily annoyed. "Alright."

"Alright…what?"

"Alright, I think this clever plan of ours deserves a little celebration. Let's break out the antidote and some water."

Araedhelm grinned and brought out the vial of amber liquid, pulling out the stopper before handing it to Thorongil. "There will be enough, if you have some now?" he queried, anxious for Thorongil to have some immediately, but equally anxious for more of the antidote to be made. Enough to combat the poison in full.

Thorongil held the vial up, gauging the amount left. "Yes. I'll only take a small amount. Not much is needed, for a brief reprieve."

Araedhelm nodded. "Take some, then."

Thorongil waited until they'd gone past a particularly bumpy section of the road, then quickly downed a small sip of the bitter substance. He grimaced, but couldn't help smiling as he was instantly reminded of all the times he'd drunk similar tasting brews made by Elrond. The elf's face came to his mind's eye, all at once the face of his gentle and loving Adar, but also equal parts the stubborn and unbendable healer, determined to make his patient well, no matter how pitiable he tried to look. He could almost hear him saying, "Drink it all, ion-nin, or I will get your brothers in here to assist me." Or sometimes it was the twins, Elladan always ready with a threat about bringing Legolas to "assist" _them _in their little brother's own best interests…

"Taste that good, does it?"

Thorongil blinked at Araedhelm, who was regarding him with raised eyebrows. "What?"

"You took a drink of that, and started to look a little…euphoric. If it tastes that good…"

"Good? No, it tastes terrible." Thorongil handed back the vial and pulled out his water flask. "It has a truly foul aftertaste."

"That's what all the smiling is about?"

Thorongil chuckled. "No."

"What?" Araedhelm probed.

"Nothing."

"Really."

"I was just…thinking."

Araedhelm rolled his eyes, giving up. Thorongil was enjoying his mystification too much to tell him anything now. "You were thinking. That _is_ worth a laugh or two."

Unruffled, Thorongil just smiled more broadly, took a drink of water, and leaned his head back against the sideboard of the cart. "You know, Lieutenant, I really can't remember that much about the journey here. However, one thing I haven't forgotten is the promise I made you that first night. You _will_ regret all this insubordination. You're digging your grave all the deeper as we speak. Leave off with the insults, and I just might let you say goodbye to your lovely wife."

"Generous of you, Sir."

They rode for several minutes in smiling, comfortable silence. A rough jostle made Thorongil wince, as already bruised, and now more bruised, shoulder blades bumped painfully into the sideboard.

"Feeling any better yet?"

Thorongil hunched slightly forward so his back wouldn't come into contact with the wood next time. "A little."

"Captain, in case you haven't noticed, I tend to worry about you a great deal. I know you're a man of few words, but would it be so very difficult to elaborate, just a bit?"

"Yes, I'm feeling _better_. Fine, fine…" Thorongil cut off Araedhelm before he could start reprimanding in earnest. "I'm feeling much better. Actually, I think if it were necessary, I could fight." He still felt cold, but now it felt more natural, instead of the chill that had been pervading him from the inside and out.

"I'll take that to mean you'll survive until we can contact Neylor? You're not going to go passing out on me? Because, if so, I think we can spare a little more of the antidote."

"Araedhelm, I just said—"

"I know what you just said."

"You don't have to discount my word so quickly. Haven't you ever thought that, perhaps, the reason I don't elaborate on my health is because you never _believe_ me?"

Araedhelm disregarded his complaint. "You _aren't_ going to end up passing out on me, right?"

"Right."

The both knew all this back-and-forth nonsensical banter served no other purpose than to distract themselves. The road was reaching upwards, sloping gently towards the city. They could both tell they were close, but they were running out of plausible conversation, so Araedhelm asked anyways.

"How far is it yet?"

"It won't be more than a few minutes," the old man called back to them from his seat.

"Could the lad be sent ahead, to see how things stand in Edoras?" Araedhelm asked, referring to the boy who accompanied the farmer, no doubt to help with loading and unloading.

"That he could. Seems like a good idea to me, my Lord."

The cart was pulled to a stop, and the boy jumped out, taking off at an energetic sprint the second his feet touched the ground. The cart started forward again, but before they could go very far the boy was back again. Breathless, but anxious to relay his information, the news was panted out sporadically between gulps.

"Different guard…at the gate. Didn't look…Rohirric. Dark hair. Angry looking. I didn't even…try to get through. But they are stopping people…coming in and out."

Thorongil and Araedhelm looked gravely at each other, and Araedhelm asked, "Are you still willing to take us, then? If they find us, it's very likely they will recognize us, and you could get into trouble."

"'Course we're willing." The old man actually sounded a little exasperated, and not at all hesitant. "You already went over this with me several times, my Lord, and I've already explained it to the lad here. We're both willing to take our chances." There was that roguish, slightly-mad smile. "Besides, it's not like I'm going to turn back now. I have to get the produce to market, or my wife'll have my head."

Thorongil bit back a chuckle and shrugged, as if to say, "I hate to take advantage of the insane, but if the man _insists_…"

Araedhelm hid a smile of his own. "Between a rock and a hard place, eh?" Although the man's attitude was a little strange, he had to admit he understood why a man might risk life and limb rather than come back empty-handed to his wife.

The man gave a cheerful bark of laughter. "That just about sums it up, my Lord."

"Well then, we thank you for your help."

Théoden woke while they were in the process of concealing themselves underneath one of the blankets, and at the very back of all the produce.

"We're almost there?"

"Aye," Thorongil replied, squeezing the prince's shoulder gently, indicating he should remain lying down. "Just stay behind us and be as quiet as you can. If the guards discover us, don't say anything and try to keep your face hidden. And keep your hood down."

Théoden nodded, curling into an impossibly small bundle and nestling against their backs trustingly as they all three lay flat, and did their best to become invisible. It was easy to tell by the increase of sound alone when they'd passed through the gates.

"You there," a voice hailed them. "Stay where you are until we've searched you."

The voice of the old man directly above them sounded so undaunted and calm Thorongil was almost convinced himself that the man had nothing to hide. "Search away. Unless the people of Edoras have grown very mistrustful indeed, you won't find anything out of order."

Another boisterous voice scoffed, "We'll see about that."

There was thumping and the sound of cloth being thrown back, and then, "What have we here?"

More thumping and bumping of the cart. Thorongil could feel Théoden tense against him.

"Aha, looks like you were holding out on us. Look what I found, here." There were several cheers at that pronouncement, and the sound of a spigot being opened promptly followed.

The old man's indignant voice rose above the raucous laughter. "That ale's meant for the tavern! You can't just—"

"Oh, leave off already, old man." The cart continued to be jostled, as the guards began to unload two of the kegs. "Just consider this as toll in exchange for being allowed to pass."

"There's never been such a law before!"

"Aye, well, things aren't the same as they was _before_. Why don't you move on before the price rises?"

So, he hadn't been wrong in his assumption on human nature after all. Thorongil smiled into the dark as the cart rattled on—with much harrumphing and indignant murmurings from their driver. One thing was certain, though. He was going to be investing at least a month's wages in kegs of ale to repay their new ally for his sacrifices.

**---o—oOo—o--- **

"Lord Ecthelion."

"Lord Thengel."

Thengel kept every wince from showing. Barely. Formality was always something he enjoyed—or at least _tolerated_—in small doses. Very small doses. Something told him he wasn't going to be able to say any of the things he had to without sounding just as cool and impersonal as this initial greeting was turning out to be. _More like an "acknowledgement of each other's presence" than a "greeting", _he thought, sourly.

He winced inwardly again at the expression of confusion on Ecthelion's face when he merely offered his hand, instead of finishing the greeting with their usual friendly arm-clasp, or even a brief embrace.

Ecthelion recovered, continuing with his usual warmth, but now also with a note of cautiousness. "Please, have seat."

He, along with Morwen, over a dozen of Heolstor's mercenaries, and Heolstor himself had made the long day-and-half journey to the appointed meeting grounds. Thengel and Ecthelion—or rather Heolstor and the unwitting Steward—had decided on the spot, located approximately half-way between Meduseld and Gondor. Enough supplies had been brought along to afford them all the necessities, and most of the conveniences, of home. All in all, exactly the kind of reunion Thengel would have looked forward to, were he not expected to betray his ally and friend.

They were seated comfortably, with an array of foods and drink before them—and Thengel had all the day before him to ruin their friendship. On one side of him he had Morwen, reminding him achingly of the son he would be killing if he refused to go through with this charade; on the other side he had Heolstor, his presence and hollow smile ever reminding him of his role.

Aloof. Uncaring. Impersonal. Detached. He could take his pick, as long as it portrayed exactly the opposite of what he felt.

Ecthelion was a man who rarely, if ever, lost his composure due to an awkward social situation. Someone might accuse him to his face, in front of all the citizens of Gondor, of being Melkor incarnate, and he would probably smile politely, graciously invite his accuser to have a seat, and allow him to explain his accusations, before proving calmly that they were quite mistaken. He fought injustice with a firm hand, but he was ever gracious and dignified while doing so, and he didn't cower away from something just because the situation was uncomfortable. Just because he was in a room—or in this case, tent—full of people he thought he knew as friends, but who were now giving him the cold shoulder, didn't mean the Steward of Gondor had to act like anything was wrong.

"I am glad this meeting could be arranged."

Thengel only nodded. Surely Heolstor couldn't fault him for saying nothing at all.

"It has been far too long since we have seen each other."

Heolstor was watching Thengel meaningfully out of the corner of his eye. So it _wouldn't _be enough for him to suffer through this ordeal silently. "Aye, I suppose it has been a long time. But you know how things are."

"Yes…I do know how _some_ things are, but it has indeed been some time since we last sat down together like this. I would very much like to hear more of how you are doing." Ecthelion acknowledged Morwen with a warm smile. "How do you fare, Lady Morwen?"

"I am well, Lord Ecthelion. Thank you for your concern."

Ecthelion looked mildly confused again, at receiving the same coolness from her, but he didn't pause. "If you ever grow longing for home, you know Gondor would be honored to be graced by the presence of the fair Queen of Rohan, should you care to visit for a time. You are always welcome in Minas Tirith—or Lossarnach, if you wish."

"Thank you. I assure you I am quite comfortable in my new home."

Ecthelion's ability to come up with subject matter was as apparently inexhaustible as his poise, but the clipped answers made it difficult to bear the brunt of the conversation. "What of the Prince? Have you brought him with you?"

"He is…at home."

It began to seem more like Ecthelion was conducting an interrogation than a pleasant conversation to catch up on old friends. "How is Théoden? By now he must be, what? Seven? Eight?"

"He has just turned eight."

"I remember when Denathor was that age…" Ecthelion chuckled. "They grow up so quickly. I suppose he's already wanting a horse of his own?"

"Oh yes, he started begging for a horse _years_ ago."

Ecthelion studied Morwen's face. For a moment, it had been as if the sun had broken through, a smile flooding her face. Just as quickly she'd turned her face down to stare at her lap, the smile gone, and something akin to fear in its place. He aimed his question at Thengel again. "Tell me, how is Rohan? Have any new problems with the Dunlendings arose?"

"No. We have had no problems." Thengel's voice was low and stiff. "I am perfectly capable of handling the affairs of my country."

"I did not intend to intrude."

The silence was painful. Ecthelion decided to let things slide for a while before he made things worse. It appeared no topic was neutral enough at the moment. He felt as if he were the one person in the room who was not "in on the joke", if joke it were. The dead seriousness on their faces said otherwise.

Morwen stood abruptly, motioning for the Ecthelion and the rest of the men to stay seated when they would have risen in respect. "No, please, stay seated. I'm not feeling very well. I think I just need some fresh air."

"If you are not feeling well, my Lady, perhaps you should stay seated. Allow me to pour you a glass of wine? Or perhaps some water?" Heolstor asked attentively, his concern to all appearances authentic.

Morwen hesitated. "I…"

"I think the Queen just needs a breath of fresh air." Thengel nodded to his wife. "Take your time, my dear."

Ecthelion watched the queen slip from the tent, his unease growing by leaps and bounds. It was as if Morwen had been looking for permission to leave, and Thengel had granted it. As for Captain Heolstor, he seemed somehow connected to the small clash of wills. And yet… He looked so completely and genuinely concerned. And _yet_… What was the man doing here in the first place? The captain had seated himself inconspicuously to the side, and had spoken but the one sentence, but for some reason it felt as if he was playing an important role even so.

"The Queen has been feeling unwell?" Ecthelion asked after her departure.

"My wife simply wished to take some fresh air."

"Of course." Ecthelion sighed inwardly. He could use a little fresh air himself. Right now, he needed some distance from this friend, who was suddenly acting like a stranger. He needed some time to think about this conversation. To try to figure out what was wrong. Something _was_ wrong, that much was obvious. This was not the Thengel or Morwen he knew. He needed to get away to think. This conversation was proving to be less than helpful.

Thengel's face was stony and unreadable, and didn't change as the steward rose to excuse himself.

"I think I could use some air myself." Ecthelion bowed his head to Thengel and Heolstor. "I hope to meet up with you again later today, Lord Thengel."

**---o—oOo—o--- **

"I do hope that wasn't a sample of your very best."

Thengel glared straight ahead at the uneaten feast set out on the table, and at the empty chair Ecthelion had just vacated. He couldn't look at Heolstor, or he might strangle him. "I _can't_ do any better than that. You'll have to accept it."

"I hope for your son's sake you _can_ do better."

"I'm not as well practiced in deception as _some_."

"Then you had better _become_ practiced. And no more little acts of defiance. You and the Lady Morwen will listen to me and do exactly as I say. I don't play games. Make this as painless as possible for yourself and your family by ending your friendship with Ecthelion sooner rather then later."

"_Painless_?" Thengel scoffed.

"Yes, painless, Sire. The absence of pain. You are not the only one who might get hurt. How many times do I have to remind you of your son?"

"You cannot afford to kill him. Besides, knowing you, he is hid far away. Too far away for you to harm him over every 'little act of defiance' on my part."

"How right you are. But there are others you love, much closer at hand."

Thengel knew counter-threats were useless, but his blood boiled at the insinuation. "You cannot risk harming Morwen, either. Someone could see, Ecthelion would notice if—"

"Thengel, Thengel… I can do anything I want. Do not make me surprise you with the innovations my mind is capable of. Do what is best for your family, and stop trying to figure out ways to get around my orders, and start working on your deception. I'm sure with the right motivation in mind you can perform much better next time."

* * *

**To be continued...**

Ooo, Heolstor, getting a bit over-confident, are we? And here I thought you'd resloved not to gloat prematurely. Pride goes before a fall, 'n all that good stuff... -bg-


	32. Eyes Wide Open

**A/N: Here ya are! Although there's some Thorongil at the beginning, it'll be a bit heavy on OC and villain screentime--sorry, t'was necessary. **

* * *

**Chapter 32: Eyes Wide Open**

Cwén's face was radiant with happiness when she opened the door to find not only her husband standing without, but Théoden and Thorongil as well. To say she'd been worried out of her mind about them would have been an enormous understatement.

"Araedhelm?" She waited until they were inside and she'd closed the door behind them, then pulled back his hood to get a good look at her husband's face. No scratches or bruises, a good sign. But that didn't mean he wasn't hiding an injury of some kind…

Araedhelm knew he was going to be thoroughly examined before Cwén would believe he was uninjured, but he forestalled the scrutiny by pulling her into a firm embrace. "I'm alright. I really _am_ alright." When she finally nodded against his shoulder, he released her, and drew her attention to Thorongil and Théoden—who were busy looking sheepish in the background.

Cwén cleared her throat, her immediate worries lessening, and resumed the role of Queen of the Home, wielding her hospitably with an iron will that was impossible to withstand. "After all the trouble the three of you have doubtless gotten yourselves into and out of these last days, you must be exhausted."

"That we are." Araedhelm agreed for the three of them. "But…where are the children?"

"They're outside playing—and don't keep trying to side-track me, Araedhelm." She smiled gently at Théoden, and held out a hand. "Come, child, why don't you come with me the kitchen, and we'll get you a little washed up, and something to eat right away? You're far too thin." Théoden was hungry, but he was starved even more for a mother's comfort, and latched eagerly on to her attention. Cwén looked more sternly at her husband. "As for you two, I want you to go get cleaned up first." Her gaze lingered with concern on the bruises scattered across Thorongil's face, now more visible as he too pulled back his hood. "Captain, are you injured?"

"I am well," Thorongil hastened to assure her. It was mostly true, after all. The antidote was working like…well, like a cure. The fatigue from the journey, and pain from the beatings he'd received, were both easily endurable without the poison's insidious effects.

Araedhelm rolled his eyes at the casual lie, but decided against telling the whole saga to Cwén just yet. "We'll get cleaned up…" he said, obediently. "But don't _we_ get something to eat, _right away_?"

"Quit whining and get cleaned up—_first_," Cwén called over her shoulder as she guided Théoden towards the kitchen.

"Do you see what I have to put up with?" Araedhelm muttered companionably to Thorongil.

"You poor man," Thorongil said, without an ounce of pity.

"You haven't been around her on a bad day."

"Come, let us just do what the woman says." Thorongil looked Araedhelm up and down. "You do look rather the worse for wear, as far as _dirt_ is concerned. Worse than me, I dare say, and _I_ spent the week in the company of Dunlendings—sitting in the dirt all the while, I might add."

Araedhelm protested even as he led Thorongil toward a back room. "And I spent most of that time _laying_ in the dirt watching the camp."

"More like _rolling_ in the _mud, _from the look of you. I do have to give it to you, though, you do have a Dunlending-proof disguise going for you, Lieutenant."

"That's the thing about you, Captain. You're never short on words of encouragement and praise for your men."

"Well, for some it's harder to find something positive to speak of than it is for others, but I try."

By the time they'd both washed up and exchanged their clothes for something warmer, not to mention _cleaner_, irresistible smells were coming from the other end of the house. On their way to the table, Araedhelm was waylaid by Rynan and Wynn coming through the door. They charged him, hugging him and talking animatedly all at once, the moment they saw him. Cwén watched them smilingly for a few minutes before herding them all to the table, where the six of them succeeded in squeezing around the table with some effort.

Introductions were hardly necessary between the children. Prince or no, both boys had a love for horses, and once the subject was broached there was no shutting either of them up. And Wynn wasn't one to allow herself to be left out, either. As a result, the adults ate most of their meal in companionable silence, although several wry glances were exchanged while the children's chatter reigned supreme.

"Why don't the two of you take Théoden to your room and make him comfortable? He'll be staying with us for a while." Cwén's suggestion was instantly taken. The children's voices could still be heard after they'd gone to the other room, their three voices rising excitedly every now and then.

"Cwén…" Araedhelm began uncertainly. "I chose to come here automatically, since I knew our presence wouldn't be betrayed. But I didn't think everything through." Araedhelm glanced at Thorongil, and saw agreement there. "The Prince should stay here. He'll be easy enough to hide and, risky though it is, I wouldn't trust his life with anyone else at this point. As for the Captain and myself, we—"

"Are going to stay right here and not say another word about it." Cwén's face warned Araedhelm and Thorongil not to interrupt. "I know it increases the danger, and I wish the children weren't here to be in that danger, but neither of you are going anywhere else. It's too dangerous for _you_."

Thorongil hated this situation more than he could say. Not only would he be endangering women and children, but these were his friend's wife and children, and the _crown_ _prince. _He didn't like it at all. If he were discovered here, Heolstor might very well kill them all. "I can't stay here."

"Yes, you can," Cwén insisted.

Thorongil leaned his head against his open hand, his elbow resting on the table. The thought of more running was hard to even consider at this point, but the thought of being responsible for the possible deaths of these people was hardly better. "I _can't_…"

"Captain, where else would you go?" Cwén asked. "Where else in Edoras could you hide? If you do not hide with someone, in the household of someone you trust, you will be found. You cannot stay out in the open. Please, accept our help. If you leave, I know Araedhelm will leave with you, and if you will not permit that, he will follow you. You'll both be killed, and, as my husband, his involvement in helping you may very well be traced back to me. So you see, by leaving, you are not only throwing your own life away, but endangering the _prince_, as well as the rest of us." She finished her argument with confident finality, and began to clear the dishes without waiting for his answer.

Araedhelm snorted at Thorongil's dazed expression. "I take it you're not going to try and argue with that very confusing piece of logic?"

Thorongil put up a last, pathetic attempt at disagreeing. "Araedhelm, I just…I don't think it's right for me to be staying here… It feels wrong."

"Didn't you hear what she said? With that attitude, you'll get us all killed."

"Araedhelm—"

"Good, I'm glad you agree. We couldn't have left anyways. After all, I told Aeron we'd be here—you wouldn't want to be responsible for driving the poor man crazy with worry, would you?"

Thorongil just stopped himself from rolling his eyes. "Cwén would tell him…"

"Ah, yes, but then he'd probably have gone after both of us and gotten _himself_ killed as well."

This time Thorongil did roll his eyes. "Between your 'logic' and your wife's…"

"Irrefutable arguments, aren't they?"

Thorongil knew he wasn't going to win this one, and no matter how distasteful the thought of endangering them all, it felt good to be temporarily offered rest. He shook his head at his supremely smug-looking lieutenant. "Irrefutable. Just the word I had in mind."

**---o—oOo—o---**

What was he doing here? What in the name of Bema was he _doing_ here?

Ceryn had asked himself that question on numerous occasions. He'd asked Mehdal the question many times. _What am I—what are __either__ of us—doing here? _Mehdal had only clapped him on the shoulder, telling him to just follow his lead and not worry about everything so much.

Just follow his lead.

That's what Ceryn always did. It wasn't that he didn't have thoughts of his own. He had plenty of them. Ideas, aspirations, dreams. He had plenty of thoughts of his own. What he didn't have, was the guts to push for what he wanted, or make what he thought should happen, _happen_. It just wasn't in his nature. It was in Mehdal's, however. And Mehdal had always pushed for what his youngest brother wanted, right along with what he himself wanted. The problem was, Ceryn wasn't so sure anymore of what he wanted anymore, so how could Mehdal know?

Ceryn hardly had the time to talk to Mehdal in private anymore, much less the time tell him at any depth of his uncertainties. Mehdal was busy, making a place for both of them in the world. Ceryn felt selfish for his resentment, but the truth was, he wasn't quite as sure now that he wanted that place in the world. He didn't want power, or even wealth, aside from perhaps enough to exist on.

Heolstor tolerated him, probably for Mehdal's sake. Heolstor didn't seem to hold much affection for anyone but himself, but he had _uses_ for other people, and he came close to liking Mehdal, most likely because Mehdal was extremely useful and dependable. Perhaps Heolstor even had something of a father-son relationship with his second-in-command—or, at least, came as close to having that sort of a relationship as Heolstor would ever get. For himself, Ceryn held no such delusions. Heolstor had probably brought him along on this journey more because he liked to keep an eye on him than anything else. Or, even more likely, he hadn't known what else to do with him.

That answered his question, at least. What was he doing here? Absolutely nothing. He had no purpose here. He was the younger brother of a resourceful and ambitious man, and he was being allowed to tag along after more "motivated" men than he.

Ceryn paced across the camp as he thought, ignoring the cool condescension coming from each man he passed. The mercenaries all thought he was a brainless, clueless idiot, who knew nothing about fighting and war. He might keep his head stuck in a book half the time—or more—but he was far from blind to what was going on.

Ecthelion would meet with Thengel and Morwen, who would alienate themselves from him in order to save their son's life. Then they'd go back to Edoras, and Heolstor might or might not stay true to his word and let the prince live. The king would eventually be murdered, and his death no doubt disguised as some tragic _accident_. The queen might well follow her husband if she didn't cooperate, and cooperation didn't exactly strike Ceryn as her foremost trait.

Heolstor had such a beautiful, flawless schedule ahead for Rohan, who could help but feel drawn to follow such a man? Oh yes, he'd chosen the right side to be on. Mehdal always chose the right side. The winning side.

_When did you become such a cynic about everything? _he wondered idly. It was easier to be cynical and off-handed, though, than to think openly about what he was passively sitting by and watching happen.

Increasingly, he was considering confronting Mehdal. But whenever the opportunity was there, his courage was not. He wasn't cowardly all the time, he was mostly just…passive. He'd never liked to fight. A good thing, growing up with Rador for a brother, and an easy thing to continue to be as an adult, with Mehdal there to guide and protect him.

Mehdal gave him all the support of both absent mother and father, as well as the provision. As children, their definition of "provision" had been anything that was enough to keep them alive. Now, they had all they needed and more. And all that he needed to do was watch and do what Heolstor told him to do, which was little enough.

So, he had food, and shelter, and a brother who took enough care of him to almost make up for never having had parents. Then why was everything so _wrong_? He knew the answer to that question, but he wished he didn't. Passivity was only good if you didn't care, and he was beginning to do just that.

Before that conclusion could lead him on to a decisive resolution, something slammed into him. Dazedly, as he regained his balance, he realized that perhaps he had slammed into the other something, just as much as the other something had slammed into him. _Nothing like walking into a tree to increase your reputation for intelligence and awareness. _As his eyes focused on the object of his collision, however, he saw that it was not a tree, but the Lady Morwen—looking equally dazed. He also noticed there were the marks of recent tears on her cheeks.

Automatically, he held out a hand to help her, as she hadn't been so lucky as to stay on her feet. "Pardon me, my Lady, I was not watching where I was going."

She stared incredulously at his hand without taking it, and raised red-rimmed eyes pierced into him with a dark look. Her eyes accused him, and he knew what they accused him of—and he knew he was guilty as much as anyone in the camp. He couldn't deny it.

"You're one of Heolstor's men?"

"I…suppose. Yes…" Ceryn stammered, even more ashamed of the fact now that he was face-to-face with one of his leader's victims.

"You kidnap my son, and torture my husband and me with his fate—and then you offer me your hand." She shook her head, looking as much bewildered as angered. And tired. "Why? Why does everyone continue to call me 'my Lady', and you help me up when you knock me down—_why? _So you can knock me back _down_ again?"

He swallowed, more guilt than he'd realized he felt on the subject rising to the surface. "My Lady, I didn't mean to knock you down in the first place. As I said, I wasn't watching where I went, please take my hand…"

Morwen stared at Ceryn with reproach, refusing his hand as she gathered the folds of her dress and gained her feet again. "If you can look at me, and see how my heart is breaking for my son, and care even a _little_, then how can you still follow that man? How can you? You _apologize_ for knocking me down, yet think nothing of threatening to kill my son?" She shook her head in angry disbelief at him as she stumbled away, wiping away fresh tears with the back of her hand.

Ceryn had no reply for that, so he watched her leave without saying more. How _could_ he be doing this? How could he be part of a plan that took children away from their parents? He couldn't. Not anymore.

**---o—oOo—o---**

When Ecthelion had been told there was a young man waiting to see him, several possible reasons had instantly sprung to mind. Maybe Thengel had been restored to his senses, and had sent one of his men to ask him if he would meet with him again. Or maybe Morwen had sent a messenger to explain things to him. Either way, he was hoping for an explanation of some kind, because his best blind guesses were getting him nowhere.

An explanation, as detailed as he could possibly have hoped for, was exactly what he got, although not in the way he'd expected. His explanation arrived in the form a shy and nervous young man, who was apparently there quite on his own initiative.

"My Lord Steward."

Ecthelion nodded his greeting. "The servants could give me no name to call you by."

"I would rather not give my name at the moment, nor tarry here long over such trivial matters. I do have something to offer that will make my intrusion worth your while, my Lord."

"It is no intrusion." Ecthelion gestured to the tent around him. "As you can see, I left most of my responsibilities at home. Please, have a seat."

The young man did so hastily, as if complying might satisfy the Steward's apparent need for decorum first, so they could move on more quickly. "I have important news…serious news…about Rohan. About the king and queen…and the prince."

Ecthelion didn't have to fake his interest. "What is the source of this information?"

The man's voice was resigned and urgent at the same time. "I am an eye-witness of what I speak. To my shame. My Lord…Captain Heolstor has betrayed the country he has served for all these years. Even now, he holds Prince Théoden hostage against the obedience of the king and queen."

A chill swept through Ecthelion at the news. "Obedience in what matter?"

"I do not know everything, Heolstor shares his full plans with very few, but first of all he wishes to weaken, or end, the alliance between Rohan and Gondor. I can only assume he means for Thengel to offend you just enough to keep you away from Edoras. At least for a while. I think he only expects to buy time. What he has planned after that is harder to define."

"I think I understand." Though full comprehension was still a ways off. "With all of Rohan for all purposes captured, and Gondor apathetic towards her, who would interfere?"

"Precisely, my Lord."

"Do you know where the Prince is being held?"

"Somewhere in the foothills of the Ered Nimrais. Vague, but that is all I know. Heolstor himself has been watching Prince Théoden in person until now. He has his own small army hidden away in the mountains, part of which he has brought with him, and the rest of which will most likely soon follow. Heolstor likes to have resources nearby—a back-up plan."

"Who is guarding Prince Théoden now?"

"A…man he trusts very much." There was an odd combination of bitterness and wistfulness in the man's tone. "His right-hand man, you could say."

Although far from understanding all the undercurrents here, Ecthelion was perceptive enough to know better than to push for more. With more attentive questioning, he gathered all the information he could. Finally, the young man seemed to have run out of things to say. Ecthelion was growing not a little curious about his willingness to help. "What can I give you in exchange for all this?"

The man stood, already shaking his head. "I really don't expect anything, my Lord. This was something I _had_ to do."

"Surely, even if you did not expect any reward, you will take one? You are obviously risking much by betraying a man like Heolstor. I can offer you much—a new beginning in Gondor, somewhere safe to go. Or a place in my ranks until Rohan has been restored to order?"

The man shook his head again. "No, no… I cannot leave now. I… won't fight for Heolstor, but he doesn't _expect_ me to." He laughed a little. "I'm not exactly a warrior."

"But you cannot go back now. If you were found out—"

"I would be a dead man. But, I doubt Heolstor will ever dream I would betray him. My cowardice is rather renowned."

"I cannot, in all good faith, allow you to go back there."

"Do you not understand? If I go back, it gives you the advantage of knowing everything, without Heolstor _knowing_ that you know. If Heolstor knew I'd been here…"

"Open conflict would occur. We both have guards with us, we're evenly matched."

"Not quite. He has the prince, held hostage out of reach, and his own personal army probably moving in close by."

Ecthelion grimaced. "There has to be some way to keep this meeting a secret without sending you back there."

"Even if there was my Lord, I would not take it. Please understand, I am more ashamed than I can say to ever have been mixed up in this whole mess, but…I have been. And there is another, dear to me, who is involved even more deeply than I. There _is_ one favor I would ask…"

"What is it? Please, ask."

The man seemed to have reached a decision. "It is my brother. His name is Mehdal. He…is the one I spoke of, who is so close in the confidence of Heolstor. But he is not a bad man. Not a cruel man—motivated, and honor-bound to Heolstor—but not a cruel man. Please, spare his life when you succeed, if it is within your power."

"I give you my word, if we succeed and it is possible, his life will be spared."

"Thank you, my Lord. I must return now, before my absence it noticed."

As the other man bowed respectfully and turned to leave, Ecthelion stopped him with a last question. This went against everything in his nature: letting this man, who had just risked his life to tell him all this, go and risk his life further. And he didn't even know who the man was. "Who are you? At least tell me your name."

"My name is Ceryn. As for _who_ I am… I think I could be defined as a spineless man going against his nature and _doing_ something for a change," he added, self-derogatorily, but with a wry smile.

"You have what it took to come here, as well as to go back there now for the sake of your brother. That says something about who you are, in my opinion. You changed sides before it was too late—is that not what counts?"

Ceryn gave a soft snort of disagreement, but replied in a thoughtful tone, "Perhaps."

He left Ecthelion with clear information of what Heolstor was doing, but a murky idea of what he himself was _going_ to do.

**---o—oOo—o---**

Ceryn couldn't help but be nervous. Even though he was merely relaying a routine message from one of the mercenaries, telling Heolstor that Thengel and Morwen were in their tent for the night and being watched, despite the slim chances they would try escaping. Heolstor still liked to take every precaution.

He kept telling himself it was just _routine, _but facing Heolstor so soon after betraying him still terrified him. If it hadn't been for Mehdal, he would have been seriously tempted to take Ecthelion up on his offer and stay as far away from Heolstor as possible.

Schooling his face to look as normal as possible, he stepped into Heolstor's tent and bowed civilly. "Thengel and Morwen have both retired for the night, and are closely guarded, should they attempt anything rash." He didn't make eye-contact with Heolstor, but he did cast a quick glance at the large, black bird sitting on his leader's shoulder. He tried not to grimace at sight of the bird. There was an eerily human, and fundamentally evil, quality to the Crebain that made him want to shudder when they were around. There was something extremely sinister about the sight of Heolstor conferring with the bird. He looked like some dark wizard having an intimate conversation with a demon.

"Ah, good," Heolstor replied shortly, apparently dismissing him already.

Ceryn was only too happy to get out of there, and turned to go as soon as the permission was given. But before he'd reached the entrance to the tent, a croaking call from the Crebain brought him instinctively to a halt.

"_Him_!"

"What is it, my friend? What about him?" Heolstor asked.

"_Trai-tor._"

Ceryn froze. However the creature knew, he had to say something in his own defense. Quickly. He turned slowly, frowning in what he hoped looked like bewilderment. "What…?"

Heolstor watched him with narrow scrutiny, still talking to the bird. "Traitor? You say he is a traitor? Why?"

"_Be-tray."_

"My Lord, I wouldn't—"

"Quiet, Ceryn." Heolstor was showing precisely the kind of calmness Ceryn dreaded most. "Let it finish. How has this one betrayed me?"

"_Went to…other one. Bad…one. Wrong side."_

"He went to the other side of the camp, across the clearing?"

"_Yes."_

Heolstor regarded the now panic-stricken Ceryn, who was having trouble hiding his guilt. "He went inside one of the tents?"

"_Ye-es. Biggest one._"

"Ah. The 'biggest' one." Heolstor tilted his head at Ceryn. "You wouldn't care to tell me who resides in the 'biggest' tent, would you, Ceryn?"

Most of the talent for lying in their family seemed to have fallen to Rador—Ceryn had probably never come up with a _plausible_ lie in his life, much less convinced anyone he wasn't lying when he was. He didn't even try to think of an excuse now.

Heolstor turned momentarily back to the bird on his shoulder. "Thank you, my friend." He picked up a roll of paper, secured with a piece of twine, and tied it to the bird's leg. "Please take this to Mehdal."

The beady eyes of the Crebain were still fixed on Ceryn. "_Trai-tor._"

"I know, my friend. He will be dealt with. I thank you for your help." Heolstor snatched up a bunch of grapes and allowed the Crebain to pluck them from his hand. The bird swooped across the room and through the loose cloth at the entrance, out into the night. A single caw was answered by several more, and the sound of flapping wings faded into the distance.

Ceryn continued to stand there, stunned, terrified, and already beginning to go numb with a strange acceptance of his predicament. Heolstor knew, but there was one last thing he could do. "I did betray you. I told Ecthelion everything." He smiled a small, defiant smile, staring—perhaps for the first time ever—directly into Heolstor's cold eyes. And he felt no fear.

Heolstor rose, calm no longer, and advanced on him. "So the coward finds his voice at last."

Ceryn didn't back down. He wouldn't make a fool of himself by trying to run. The soldiers would catch him before he'd gone far. "Yes, I found my voice. Unfortunately, it wasn't heard. The Steward doesn't believe me."

"Why wouldn't he?" Heolstor sneered. "I'm sure you wove him an entertaining tale."

"Oh, yes, he found it entertaining, but hardly believable."

"I don't know about that. I think Lord Ecthelion is a very discerning man. I find it hard to believe he'd make light of the kind of information you offered him."

"Lord Ecthelion is a discerning man. Unfortunately, I struck him as fool. Don't you think I would have stayed in safety if he'd believed me? I wouldn't have come back if I'd had other options."

Heolstor was practically nose-to-nose with him. "Well, I have to agree with the Steward on this one, Ceryn. You are a fool. And, idealistic fool that you are, you are probably thinking you just made the one and only good decision of your life. I hate to have to be the one to break it to you—but it was your worst."

Ceryn had been expecting the dagger, steeling himself for its bite when he saw Heolstor's hand reaching for his belt. But he hadn't expected it to hurt so much. He hoped, at least, that his lie had been believable.

* * *

**To be continued...**

And we'll be getting back to Thorongil and Araedhelm next. :o)


	33. Stalemate

**A/N: More Thorongil, as promised. ;o)**

**(The Site's jumbling words again. -sigh- Let me know if there's some run-together sentence driving you nuts, and I'll go back and change it... :o) )**

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**Chapter 33: Stalemate**

"Where are you going?"

Cwén stopped, hand on the door, to look oddly at her husband. "Out. I need to go to the market. New produce has been a little more scarce since Heolstor turned this city into his stronghold, but there should be some fresh fruit and vegetables today, if I hurry and get there."

Araedhelm shook his head obdurately. "You can't go out."

"But we'll need _food_, eventually. And with all six of us here, we're going to need it a lot sooner than 'eventually'."

"Cwén."

"What? I won't be endangering any of you by going out. People _expect _me to leave the house occasionally. It's normal. It would probably look far more strange if I _didn't_ go."

"I know, I'm not thinking out about our safety."

"Then what…?"

"For being such an intelligent woman, you can certainly avoid following my train of thought when you wish to, my dear. I'm thinking about _your_ safety."

"But I told you, I'd only be doing routine things, nothing dangerous."

"I thought you said there were Heolstor's men all over the city."

"Well, yes, but…"

"And I don't suppose they're exactly silent observers? Or do they pretty much leave everyone alone—at least those who are only doing 'routine' things?"

"Well, no, they do…hassle some people…a little, but…"

"'Hassle'? Could you define that for me?"

"Araedhelm. We do_ need_ food. You can't go without taking an even greater risk. You've been gone for a suspiciously long time and, besides, Heolstor knows first-hand the kind of man you are. That you're loyal. You're probably near the top of his list of 'traitors'. You can't go—even if I did trust you with the shopping. You'd look ridiculous, at any rate," she added with a smirk.

"I don't suppose you would consider trusting _me_ to go?" Thorongil asked wryly, unexpectedly entering the feud.

"Thorongil." Cwén pounced on the possible ally and motioning him to come into the room. "Help me convince Araedhelm that food _is_ necessary to survival."

"I'm afraid your wife would be correct on this one, Araedhelm." Thorongil had to keep reminding himself not to smile. He had yet to find a facial expression that didn't upset the layers of bruises on his face, which had somehow grown even more sore overnight. Come to think of it, it hurt to move just about any part of his body right now.

"I like to eat as much as the next man. What my wonderful wife, here, is trying to convince me of, is to allow her go out there and be 'hassled' by Dunlendings."

Thorongil realized too late it probably would have been better not to get himself involved in this particular conversation. Thankfully, it looked like Cwén was beginning to recognize defeat when she saw it.

"Do you have a better idea?"

Araedhelm had obviously been waiting for the question. "As a matter of fact, I _do_. I realize a trip to the market is necessary, but I think I have a better candidate."

"Who?" Cwén asked dubiously.

"You'll see, my dear. Knowing the man, he shouldn't be too much longer."

Cwén looked plenty skeptical, but she just sighed in acceptance and continued on with some other household chores. As Araedhelm had predicted, his 'candidate' arrived not long after. Cwén opened the door, and Araedhelm stood and motioned Aeron in. The young man looked greatly relieved to see both Araedhelm and Thorongil in the room.

"You made it, then."

"Aye," Araedhelm replied. "All three of us made it, and I'm glad to see you have as well."

Aeron inclined his head. "Fortunately for all of us, the guards, although vigilant, don't seem to be particularly thorough about searching everything that comes through."

"Not to mention easily distracted," Thorongil agreed. "You have a place to stay?"

"Yes, I decided against going back to my home in case I am suspected, but I'm staying with relatives, as are the rest of the men."

Cwén had her hands on her hips. "_This_ is your 'idea'?"

"Well it's not my most brilliant one, but yes, he's who I had in mind," Araedhelm said defensively.

"Had in mind for _what_?" Aeron asked, looking uncomprehendingly from Araedhelm to Cwén. Neither of them replied, and Thorongil wasn't about to stick his nose back where it didn't belong.

"Araedhelm, by the time I've explained the intricacies of exactly what I want, I'll have used up enough time to go there and back again."

"Intricacies? How intricate a business can this possibly be?" Araedhelm winced at Cwen's increased glower. "Fine…I take _that_ back. But I still want him to go instead of you."

"Go _where_?" Aeron inserted his voice into the argument again, completely at a loss as to what was being haggled over and why he, apparently, was somehow a key element. He didn't remember volunteering for anything.

"Alright," Cwén said at last—still not answering Aeron's question. "But he had better be good at listening, and remembering. I don't want to have to say any of this twice."

"Araedhelm—Sir," Aeron groaned, close to throttling someone if he didn't get an answer soon. "What in Arda have you gotten me into?" he muttered under his breath. Cwén handed him a basket, which he took without thinking. "What…?"

Cwén's took mercy. "Nothing too terrible, just a little shopping."

"Shopping…?"

"Yes, I have a rather long list, so you might want to come with me into the kitchen and have a seat while I give it to you."

As Cwén dragged him off, he shot a bewildered and accusing glance in Araedhelm's direction. It said "You will pay for this—_sir,_" more eloquently than any words.

"That takes care of that," Araedhelm commented to Thorongil, with some satisfaction.

Thorongil shook his head laughingly.

"What?"

"Let me just say, I'm grateful you don't hold rank over _me_. I'm sure Aeron never guessed enlisting in the army would entail doing some _shopping_ for his superior officer's wife."

"Ah," Araedhelm said lightly. "He's competent, and I'm sure he was taught to expect anything. Besides, if he doesn't have a wife now, he'll probably have one himself sooner or later. It's good training."

"Training" or no, Aeron looked far from grateful as he left, basket gripped in one hand as inconspicuously as possible.

It was still relatively early in the morning and the children, who'd been too wound up the previous night to go to bed—or more precisely quit _talking_ and go to _sleep_—and were still resting in the other room. With the resilience of a young child, Théoden seemed to be bouncing back quickly from his ordeal. The clatter of dishes and utensils coming from the kitchen as Cwén prepared the morning meal, and her accompanying soft humming, created a cheerful backdrop for the more sober mood Thorongil and Araedhelm fell into.

They had rescued Théoden from Heolstor's clutches, and gotten him safely secreted within Edoras, but they were still a very long way from accomplishing the main objective. When Heolstor returned, they had to have a course of action already prepared.

"We need a way to get word to the king and queen that their son is safe, as soon as they return," Thorongil raised the question, knowing Araedhelm was mulling over the same problems as he.

"Aye. For that matter, it would be good to get that news circulating in Edoras even before he returns. We probably have a few days at least, but there's no such thing as being overly prepared. At least not where Heolstor is concerned."

"I agree. We'll have to think of someone in Meduseld. Someone we can trust implicitly to circulate the news to the right people, and not get too excited and let word slip to the _wrong_ people, otherwise we'll be working against ourselves."

"What about the actual plan?" Araedhelm asked, after they'd pondered possibilities for a few minutes.

"I was hoping you wouldn't bring that up. But I suppose we _do_ need one."

Skin mottled with bruises, wincing at every move, and a dispirited expression on his face, Thorongil looked the picture of a man whose luck had dealt him more than his fare share of misfortune—all at once. Araedhelm kept the observation to himself. He knew that, however much his friendship for the man urged him to send Thorongil straight to a healer and force him to rest until an antidote was made, Thorongil was probably one of their best hopes in this dismal situation. Underneath the dispirited expression he wore, he could tell Thorongil's sharp and strategic mind was already turning over the different possibilities.

Araedhelm turned his own thoughts to strategy as well, even if he was constantly glancing at Thorongil, anticipating that he would find the solution that had to be there, waiting for them to find it.

In his own plans, he kept coming back to a major problem: they needed more men. Many of the soldiers were scattered. Some had left to search for Heolstor before the news of Théoden's kidnapping had arrived and had not returned yet. And the ones that remained had undoubtedly been temporarily disbanded by Heolstor. All of the people who were in a position to know what was really going on were helpless to fight back, because the prince was still, supposedly, being held hostage. And it was possible, even likely, that the many of the common people who had never learned the full story of Heolstor's treachery had by now been convinced by his return, subsequent apparent acceptance at court, and the inaction of Thengel's own men against him, that what they had heard was incorrect. It would be slow work spreading the word that Théoden was rescued, without spreading the word to Heolstor or his men. It was doable, but it could take some time before they had a reasonable force at their command.

Even after considering those discouraging factors, he had to consider the possibility that Heolstor would find a new hostage in Morwen or Thengel once he found out that Théoden was free. He didn't know what kind of communication Heolstor kept with his men, but it was possible that he would receive word that his prisoners had escaped, even before he reached Edoras. If so, they had to have a back-up plan, if there was anything they could do without Heolstor figuratively—or possibly _not_ so figuratively—holding a knife to their king's throat.

Those were just a few of the stalemates Araedhelm ran into. Thorongil had to be getting further than that, because he certainly wasn't.

"Well, any ideas?" Araedhelm asked tentatively.

"Hmm," Thorongil responded with a not-totally-aware grunt.

"'Hmm, I have a brilliant plan that will save us all', or 'Hmm, we're all doomed so we may as well surrender now'?"

Thorongil looked up, rousing from his deep inner council only to a degree, and with reluctance. "Hmm? Sorry, I was just considering a few possibilities, what were you saying?"

"I was just asking if you're ready to share your brilliant tactical maneuvers yet."

"What?"

Apparently Thorongil hadn't given him _all_ his attention yet. "The plan. Do you have a _plan_? I assumed that was what you were thinking about all this time…"

"Oh, yes…a plan. Of course that was what I was thinking about."

"And…"

"I'm working on it."

"And?"

"I'm working on it. Do we have to go through this routine every time you want me to say something? I don't have anything to tell you yet. You've only given me—"

"—Nearly an hour to work on it."

Thorongil gave him an exasperated I-hate-impatient-people look. "We are all but planning a full-scale war, here, and you give me an _hour_?"

Araedhelm sighed. "Are you telling me you're as clueless as I am?"

"No." More exasperation. "I'm telling you, I'm _working_ on it."

All hope was not lost then. "Then you do have an idea?"

"Yes, I have an idea, which I am now beginning to _lose_ because you're distracting me."

Araedhelm made a gesture of surrender with his hands. "Alright, alright… But couldn't you just tell me the basics of what you're thinking?"

"If I do, will you leave me to think in peace?"

"How much time are we talking about?"

"As much as I need," Thorongil replied evasively.

"Very well. What is it?"

"I'm thinking, first of all…" Thorongil drew it out, gauging the annoyed response from his lieutenant before finishing simply, "…we need more men."

"_Captain_," Araedhelm burst out. Now he was the exasperated one. "That's it? That's the conclusion you've come to over the course of an hour?"

"I didn't say that was my final conclusion. I said 'first of all'. Basically—and _first_ of all—I think we need more men."

"Is there a '_second_ of all' yet?"

Thorongil was the embodiment of perfect composure and smugness. "Of course there is. But that's the part that's still in progress. Now, if you don't mind…"

"Captain, you have to have something more than that by now. I came to _that_ conclusion myself."

"Oh. Good. I'm glad we're on the same page, then."

"Or we _would_ be if you'd share your ideas without making me grovel…" Araedhelm groused to no one in particular—since Thorongil certainly wasn't listening anymore.

So Thorongil thought and Araedhelm paced. He quickly gave up on trying to glare Thorongil into feeling guilty, since his captain didn't seem to notice and he was only giving himself a headache. He'd paced around the room a number of times, falling into an almost lulling routine, when a knock on the door started them both. Fear that they'd been discovered was quickly dismissed. The light but insistent tapping certainly didn't sound like it could be coming from a soldier. The voice certainly didn't.

"Cwén—Cwén? Come dear, let me in, it's been a long day."

Araedhelm and Thorongil followed as Cwén answered the door. Feorh stood on the doorstep, and beside her a resigned-looking Aeron, holding a now full basket of assorted produce.

"Come in, Feorh, Aeron," Cwén motioned them both inside, taking the basket from Aeron to look at the contents with scrutiny.

"Don't worry about that, my dear," Feorh said, watching her riffle carefully through the basket. "I found this lost-looking young man in the market, and when I found out he was there with the intent of buying—and for you no less—well… I knew I had to do _something_." She shook her head wonderingly at Aeron, who seemed to be weighing his chances: whether he could slip away without being noticed, or if he should just make a dash for the door. Feorh, however, wasn't done drawing unwanted attention in his direction. "I haven't seen you in nearly two years, Aeron. Don't tell me you're too busy to stop by and see me every now and then? After all, when you were just a baby, I was the one who cleaned the mess up when you were sick all over—"

Aeron cleared his throat loudly. "Thank you, Feorh. I'm sure I would still be back there trying to figure out which stall to go to if you hadn't happened along."

Feorh had an amused sparkle in her eyes that made it plain she knew she held blackmail material, but she left off, turning back to Cwén instead. Only, when she looked over Cwén's shoulder and saw Araedhelm and Thorongil, whatever she was going to say evaporated into stunned silence. A silence which lasted a grand total of two seconds before she started spluttering in astonishment, "Lieutenant...Captain…You both…" Finally she seemed to have stored up enough words to properly form a comprehensive sentence. "What on Arda are you doing here?"

Thorongil gave in to a smile despite the twinges of pain it cost his bruised face. "It's good to see you too, Feorh."

"You know what I mean," Feorh huffed, rounding Cwén to have a good look at the two of them. "You are injured, Captain?"

Thorongil exhaled in frustration. He knew that question would come sooner or later. "Why is it that lately the first two questions my presence always elicits are 'What are you doing here?' and 'Are you injured?'?"

"Well, considering you're supposedly missing, and your face is covered in bruises, I think they're both perfectly valid questions." Feorh was scanning his face with disapproval, as if it were _his_ fault the injuries were there.

"I'm doing better than I look," Thorongil assured her, again giving Araedhelm a look that dared him to say otherwise. He had a feeling that if he had to keep making these only partially true promises to people, pretty soon Araedhelm was just going to start yelling: "Gods above, the man's _poisoned_, don't listen to a word he says!" For now, though, Araedhelm just sighed long-sufferingly.

Feorh didn't look convinced regardless. "I want to know what's been going on," she demanded sternly.

"You shall," Thorongil agreed. "But first, I think there's something else you should know."

"Oh?"

"The prince is safe."

This time it took Feorh a little longer to recover. "You mean he's _here_? Théoden is here, _safe_? Let me see the poor boy… Is he well?"

"He's sleeping now, but he should be awake soon," Cwén answered her gently, at the same time motioning for the older woman to have a seat at the table. "But he is safe."

"Sweet Bema…" Feorh sat down. "Thank the gods. Oh, when I tell her Majesty…"

"Yes, about telling people…" Thorongil saw the perfect opportunity, and the perfect candidate. The first piece to the puzzle he and Araedhelm had been trying so solve earlier was sliding into place. "Feorh, if I told you I had a rather…dangerous thing to ask of you, what would you say?"

"I would say, you had better not ask anyone _else_. What do you want me to do?"

**---o—oOo—o---**

Ecthelion hated to have to be so stern with the girl, but he had to impress upon her just how imperative her part would be.

He usually felt slightly suffocated by the entourage his advisors always "advised" him to bring. Somehow, the veritable army of soldiers that usually accompanied him as guards were never quite enough without adding an addition "army" of valets and servants. For a social occasion such as this, a cook had been added as well. It always felt like over-kill to him, but this time… This time he might actually have a more practical use for at least one of them.

This was what his plan would begin with: laying all their fates in the hands a young servant girl, whose purpose on this trip had been simply to assist the cook. That, and wait on the Steward and whoever happened to be dining with him, in this case Morwen, Thengel, and their ubiquitous shadow, Heolstor.

Her part wouldn't be so simple tonight.

That was what he was trying to impress upon her, and judging by the glazed expression of fear on her face, it was working. Maybe he'd emphasized the point a bit too strongly.

"Child…" She was, after all, little more than a girl, probably not more than sixteen. Now that it appeared she was taking what he had to say adequately seriously, he tried to temper his words with gentleness. Too much fear could make her blunder just as easily as too little effort. "Please understand, this is important. I would even call it a matter of life or death. But not for _you_. You are in no danger here. I will not allow any harm to come to you should you accept."

The girl gave a small jolt of surprise at the end of the declaration. Ecthelion could have kicked himself.

"I won't force you to do this. Is that what you thought?"

She shook her head in denial, then stopped to stammer diffidently, as if she was uncertain of which would be best to settle on, the truth, or a more diplomatic answer. "No, of course I didn't think that…well, I guess I…I sort of…"

"Well hear me now. You do not _have_ to do this. I ask you, because you will likely have the most opportunities, as well as a plausible reason for being there, and thus can choose the perfect time. You also do not look…" Ecthelion searched for a word that wouldn't sound insulting, but the girl herself supplied a word with a sheepish half-smile.

"Like a spy?"

"That you do not," Ecthelion agreed, matching her smile. "I want someone unthreatening and inconspicuous. Someone people normally look right through, instead of at. Which, unfortunately for him, but fortunately for us, is the way a man like Captain Heolstor will likely see you. Or rather, _not_ see you."

The girl looked small and excruciatingly shy, standing ram-rod straight, with her hands clasped together in front of her so tightly she had to be cutting off the blood flow to her fingers. Being singled out by the Steward of Gondor for a special task was obviously not within her range of comfort.

Just when Ecthelion was beginning to feel like some tyrannical ruler, compelling a child to do something against her will, she blurted out in a rush: "I'll do it. And please don't ask me if I'm sure, because I am sure _now_, and I know it's the right thing to do, and I don't want to change my mind…"

Ecthelion bit his tongue. He had been on the verge of asking her just that. "Thank you. You are very brave." She nodded wordlessly, the expression on her pale face utterly unconvinced. He held out the letter he had written before calling her in, and she unclasped her hands long enough to take it and conceal it in the folds of her dress. "Get this to the king or queen in any way you can, as long as no one else sees." She nodded again. "You're sure…" he stopped himself again from asking her to confirm her decision. "I'm sure you'll do just fine. Go get warmed up by the fire, and have something to eat yourself before the meeting begins."

She scurried out with a quick curtsey. Ecthelion sat, gathering his frayed nerves, along with every ounce of acting skill he possessed, and then left soon after, heading toward the pavilion that had been erected for the sole purpose of the two rulers' meetings and meals together. As had been the case previously, Thengel, Morwen, and Heolstor were already seated within. Unlike last time, the discomfort on the king and queen's faces made much more sense. Ecthelion had to make a conscious effort not stare, or glare, at Heolstor.

The same stiff greetings were exchanged, lapsing into awkward pauses, and even more awkward conversation. The food was brought in by the servants, and Ecthelion watched out of the corner of his eye as the girl entered bearing a platter of fruit. She moved in and out, skirting timidly around the edges, hardly ever looking up, save to make sure she wasn't about to walk into something or someone. In other words, she was doing exactly what Ecthelion wanted: being invisible.

He relaxed, now able to give his full attention to "ending" his friendship with Thengel. He knew he was going to have to make this look real, or Heolstor would never believe he was still oblivious to his designs on Rohan. This was going to get ugly before it got…more ugly.

By the time they were halfway through the meal, he and Thengel were mostly barking their replies at each other with minimal politeness. Morwen was deadly silent, eating without looking at what she was eating. Heolstor looked concerned at a glance, but there was a hint of satisfaction to be found by the more insightful eye.

Thinking about it, Ecthelion couldn't help but find some irony in their situation. Here they were, both he and Thengel, on perfectly good terms without an ounce of real animosity toward each other, and they were verbally fighting to the bitter end. Eru, he hated this whole mess. It would have been so much easier if he could just focus on the fighting and forget that it was his dear friend he was speaking to. Just take the smallest, most miniscule, inoffensive fault, blow it up to improbable proportions, phrase it so it was just barely more than implied—and there you had it, a perfect way to insult your friend without saying it outright. They each took turns subtly going over each other's character, leadership abilities, validity to rule a country, etcetera. No non-existent fault was left un-insulted.

It was exhausting work. It is among the qualities of close, longtime friends to have both opportunities of witnessing and insight to be aware of each other's weaknesses and faults–even while forgiving, overlooking, and occasionally remaining annoyed by those same faults. In the end, inevitable offenses or disagreements weighed as nothing compared to the friendship, and were usually easily forgotten almost immediately afterwards. Though he knew there had been plenty over the years, it wasn't easy recalling enough of them now to keep their "conversation" flowing, and even harder to bring up with venom and bitterness events long past and forgiven.

Ecthelion became so wrapped up in dissecting the character one of the most honorable men he knew, that he all but forgot about the young servant girl and the message, until she spilled a goblet of wine in Morwen's lap. Morwen gave a small gasp of surprise at the sudden drenching, and the girl made such an act of looking frantic with mortification, that _Ecthelion_ almost believed it was an accident. Of course, despite the fact this was clearly her cover for slipping Morwen the message, the poor girl probably _was_ frantic with mortification.

"I'm so sorry, my Lady. How clumsy of me... Here let me dry you off. I'm sorry about this, My Lady…"

"It's alright, do not worry about it. It will dry, and I'm sure the stain will come out…I never liked this dress much anyways..."

Ecthelion could tell by the quickly concealed surprise on Morwen's face that she had indeed received the piece of paper. After making an extended show of mopping up the mess, the girl hurried from the tent with a bright blush of embarrassment on her face.

And Heolstor was never the wiser for what had just transpired right under his nose. To him, everything went just as it was supposed to, ending with two of the most influential rulers of Middle Earth parting in icy resentment.

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**To be continued...**

**Ecthelion takes action--yay. :o)**


	34. Knowledge is Power

**A/N: Yup, that lazy-bum of an author is posting late again... -throws herself upon the mercy of her readers- -...and attempts to look faaar too pathetic to refuse- Really, I'm sorry, guys. And to compound it all, I haven't finished responding to everyone--but I shall! Thanks for sending the feedback. ;)**

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**Chapter 34: Knowledge is Power **

The size of his following hadn't really decreased by a noticeable amount, but it still made Ecthelion feel somehow lighter not to have any servants, advisors, valets, or cooks swarming around him. He'd left them to go back to Minas Tirith with a safe-guard of as many soldiers as he could spare.

Of course, the advisor who'd been accompanying him had strongly advised against any of them going at all, suggesting they all return to Minas Tirith, and send a _real _army to Rohan's aid. Ecthelion knew he didn't have the time for that. By the time he got there, and more soldiers were sent out, anything could have happened. Heolstor wanted him to leave Rohan alone, and even if he was only leaving temporarily, who knew what plan Heolstor could have prepared to put into action immediately? Besides, it wasn't as if what he had with him now was a pathetic number. This same advisor who suggested retreat had suggested he bring a veritable horde to the meeting as a precaution.

That was the problem with advisors, you never knew when they were saying something paranoid but brilliant, or paranoid but…paranoid. In this case, he thought it was more a case of the advisor giving paranoid but _unintentionally_ brilliant advice. Certainly, the advisor had _meant_ for his accompanying "army" to be used more defensively then aggressively.

One self-confession Ecthelion had already made was that he was enjoying this more than a little. Not the reason for this journey, but definitely the excuse to play an active role again. It felt like forever since he'd commanded soldiers out in the field, actually there, with his men, in the middle of it. Denethor wouldn't like this when he found out, but he could enjoy himself for the present. And someday his son would discover exactly what being a Steward entailed, and how the urge to do something rash, regardless of the risks to himself it might involve, was occasionally reasonable.

No…Denethor wouldn't like this at all.

However, Denethor didn't know yet, and he _was_ going to do this. Strange, it wasn't long ago that Denethor had been the one "rebelling," and now it felt oddly as if their roles were reversed. Well, he could always blame it on old age.

They had waited until Heolstor and his party had moved some distance, taking their time packing up their own supplies, and following several hours later. With a handful of men, covertly traveling directly behind them might have been an option, but not with a group of their size. If noticed, he doubted Heolstor would believe they'd simply gotten their directions confused. When they actually arrived at Edoras, that would be when the real challenge began. He just hoped Thengel and Morwen would have something figured out by then.

Calls were reaching him from the front of the line, and he urged his horse forward to find out what was the cause of the commotion.

"My Lord, over here!"

Several men had dismounted to the left of the road, and were crouching around something. Ecthelion dismounted as well, striding over.

"We just found him here, like this, my Lord," one of the men explained.

"Valar above…" Ecthelion took the sight in with dawning horror, and sadness.

It was Ceryn, the young man who'd come to his tent the previous evening. He was half-slumped against a tree, as if he'd just sat down for a rest. His skin was ghastly white, and even in unconsciousness he was clutching a dark length of cloth—a shirt or possibly a cape—wrapped around his lower torso. With further inspection, it turned out the cloth was not so much dark as bloodstained.

One of the men was already feeling for a pulse. "He's still alive. His pulse is very weak… But he is still alive."

It had been a long time since he'd had the need to put to use his emergency medical knowledge, so many years since he'd actually been called upon to treat a wounded comrade. But the knowledge was not quite as lost as he'd expected, bits and pieces of it were coming back to him one at a time, as he thought through the process. And he had more than enough willing men crowding around him.

"Move back, all of you, except you." Ecthelion singled out, first all, the man who'd initially taken Ceryn's pulse, assuming he was at least a man of action and common sense, even if he wasn't a healer.

"I have had some little training as a healer," the man said, confirming his hopes.

Ecthelion nodded, and they both began by easing the man to the ground and elevating his legs on top of a pack. Ecthelion gave a few brisk orders to some of the other men, now standing further back, but still watching with concern. "Some of you, go prepare a stretcher."

Ceryn didn't respond as the two of them checked him over for any other injures. If you omitted the serious stab-wound in his side, which had obviously already caused him much blood loss and sent him into shock, he appeared to be doing just _fine_. On the bright side, the bleeding appeared to have stopped now. On the not-so-cheerful side, Ecthelion wasn't certain whether it would be better to remove the cloth and clean the wound to stave off infection, or if the risk of restarting the bleeding was the more dangerous. He posed the question to his impromptu assistant, but judging by the man's wry expression he'd been debating the same problem in his own mind.

They decided to work slowly, but clean out the wound as best as they could. Clean cloths and water were both brought quickly to them. One on each side, they gingerly began to peel the cloth away from the wound. They exchanged shaky glances of relief when the wound didn't begin bleeding again. There didn't appear to be any fibers of the cloth caught in it, and with some more nervous cleaning and dabbing, and the careful application of an herb-laden poultice, they decided not to push their luck any further.

A makeshift stretcher was presented to them just as they were finishing wrapping the wound with the clean bandages, and with the assistance of several of the men Ceryn was moved onto it with minimal jostling. His legs were elevated again, and enough spare blankets were gathered to all but smother him. Ecthelion lingered, checking his pulse—which was stronger, if a bit fast—and his skin, which was pale but seemed less clammy. Then he motioned for two of the men to take the stretcher, and remounted his own horse as they moved out once more.

Curious glances were given to Ceryn, the obvious question, "Who is he?" behind each one, but it was evident by the Steward's tight-lipped expression that there was no question about whether he should be brought with them.

Now that the immediate danger was past, Ecthelion's mind turned to wondering what this could mean. It was easy enough to think of several scenarios which could have gotten Ceryn into this condition, all of which were connected to the part he'd played in helping them, and involved Heolstor and a dagger.

The question was, did Heolstor know _he_ knew now? He couldn't see any way for Heolstor not to know that, if he knew Ceryn had betrayed him. Unless Heolstor hadn't stabbed Ceryn because he'd betrayed him, but for some other reason. Or maybe, although Ecthelion doubted it, Heolstor hadn't stabbed him, or even had him stabbed by someone else, maybe he'd been "killed" for an entirely different reason.

Ceryn didn't seem to have many friends, but also didn't seem like the kind of man to pick up an excess of enemies either. But, perhaps, in betraying Heolstor he'd created more than one new enemy? Ecthelion's attempts at theorizing only became more and more confusing.

They had gone some miles before Ceryn showed any signs of awareness. Ecthelion had positioned himself behind the stretcher, so he was alerted the moment the injured man began to moan, immediately calling a halt and hurrying to his side.

Ceryn's face was twisted with confusion and pain, and Ecthelion hastened to answer the questioned he knew would be foremost in the man's mind, at the same time motioning for the men who'd been carrying the stretcher to lower it. "Do not be concerned, it is only I, Ecthelion. My men and I found you in the woods, a little…worse for wear." He was gratified to see some of the confusion lessen. "Two of my men have been carrying you on a stretcher. You were stabbed." A small nod of acknowledgment of the fact. He asked again, "Heolstor?"

"Yes."

Hearing how the man's voice cracked and wavered, Ecthelion quickly pulled out his flask and offered him some water. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"He found out." Ceryn drew a shaky breath, letting it out slowly with a wince, but continued stalwartly, "Heolstor has been using Crebain, for a long time, as messengers…as spies. He's on very good terms with one in particular. I didn't think I'd been seen. And I hadn't been, not by any _man_."

"I see."

"Apparently Heolstor doesn't appreciate ideas that differ from his own."

Ecthelion raised any eyebrow at the attempt at humor, despite the circumstances. "Apparently not."

"For ten minutes I thought I'd gotten away with it… Until I walked into the tent and it looked at me, like I was so much carrion already... Beaten by a _bird_, would you believe it?" Ceryn spoke somewhat breathlessly.

"I am sorry you had to pay the price for this," Ecthelion said, unable to laugh yet over something he knew he could have prevented. _Should_ have prevented. Wishful thinking, considering that not letting him go would have ruined everything. Bloodless wars were what rulers like him always dreamed of. When you were looking at one of the possible casualties, killed by your choices, one life was no longer just a statistic. "How did you come to be here? You are some distance from where we were camped."

"I fell unconscious after he stabbed me, but apparently he had some of his men get rid of the 'evidence'." He paused a moment to gather his breath. "I woke up in the woods, lucid enough to know stopping the bleeding was probably a good idea. By all rights, I suppose I should have been dead by then, but I'm new to this whole…being mortally-wounded thing," he let out a shuddering laugh, "and I suppose I just didn't know I was _supposed_ to be dead." Ceryn's voice was slightly slurred with tiredness and lingering disorientation. "I remember blacking out several times, but… I must have stopped the bleeding after all."

"We found you close to the road. You must have been confused, and wandered." Ceryn's face was wan and drained, his body still battling to replenish the blood he'd lost. The last thing Ecthelion wanted to do was interrogate him on what still might easily turn into his deathbed, but once again, there were more lives at stake, and there was a perplexing question he had left to ask. "If Heolstor knows, why aren't we under attack?"

"You mean you went through with everything? The meeting went as planned?"

"Yes. To all appearances, Thengel and I are now indifferent, if not entirely hostile toward each other."

Ceryn closed his eyes in relief. "Then he believed me. I told him _you_ hadn't."

"And more than that. I was able to pass a message to the Lady Morwen through a servant, without Heolstor's knowledge."

"We are heading towards Edoras?"

"Aye. And I'm afraid you'll have none but a few soldiers' rudimentary healing skills, and what pain-killing herbs we have with us. We shall have to keep moving. I am sorry," Ecthelion repeated.

"My Lord…I'm just getting over being alive. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

Questions answered, and as assured as he could be for the time being of Ceryn's health, Ecthelion encouraged him to rest, giving him some more water just before he dropped back into the painless realm of sleep.

Ecthelion remounted his horse, jaw clenched unconsciously in anger. Heolstor left a trail of pain and destruction everywhere he went—and he probably wasn't seeing the half of what was going on.

**---o—oOo—o---**

"Can you do it?"

Neylor gave Araedhelm a quelling look, and resumed his steady questioning of Thorongil, as well as his inspection of the vial of antidote he held. "Do you know any of the ingredients in this, or the poison?"

Thorongil was reclining on a bed, something he'd been forced to do under much duress from Araedhelm and Neylor. He'd been all for Neylor coming to have a look at the antidote, and even agreed that the healer should probably have a look at him, but laying down like this felt an awful lot like admitting he wasn't fit to be upright. He wasn't about to be left behind in the conflict that he knew was going to take place soon. But, he also knew conserving his strength was in his best interests, and being helpful to Neylor in his search for the antidote's ingredients _certainly_ was. So he answered each question as well as he could.

"Heolstor didn't actually mention any specific ingredients. He did have some herbs out on a table that I saw, but I very much doubt those were used in it, since he made it clear I wasn't his first 'subject', and that he'd been working on developing the poison for a long time." Thorongil ran over the list, as well as he could from memory, anyways, adding his own insights from his training as a healer as to possibilities and likelihoods where he could, Neylor scrupulously writing the names down. "He called it Ethalomyn…and something with an 'H', I can't remember exactly. Things became…blurry."

"Can you elaborate on any of the symptoms?"

Thorongil's mind cringed away from even thinking about the symptoms. Every time he did so, phantom aches and pains would start up, and he'd have to keep reminding himself that _no_, the antidote couldn't possibly be wearing off yet. "The symptoms set in quickly, but their severity developed more gradually, over several days in my case. He referred to them as 'stages'. For me, I was first dizzy, nauseated, and then numb."

"Numb?" Neylor asked, still writing. "What kind of numbness?"

"Numb inside and out, like being extremely…cold. It was as if I was paralyzed. I thought I passed out, but apparently, and if I am to take Heolstor at his word, I was at least conscious, even if I don't remember being so."

"Did Heolstor mention what, exactly, this poison of his was intended for?"

"On more than one occasion. You'll recall with Eothald he used some kind of mind-controlling herbs, or at least something that made him more…open to persuasion?"

"Yes. I don't know what he used, but I do know, on certain people, there are herbs that can be surprisingly effective in that way."

"And Heolstor is very well versed in the uses of herbs, especially ones with such surprising, not to mention _useful,_ effects. This poison of his… I'm sure it has bit of everything in it. Primarily, I believe, he intended it as another tool for 'persuasion'. Each stage, or level, was twice as bad as the last. Each time I came back to consciousness, or at least _awareness_, it appeared I had—as Heolstor put it—'talked'. Though I have no memory of what I talked _about_."

"Interrogation made cleaner and easier," Neylor mused.

"Precisely. And on the plus side, for the interrogator, it appears to be more effective, more painful, and more prolonged, than any 'truth-serum' I have encountered before. Of course, your 'subject' is prone to be a little less relaxed, and might need a little manhandling while the seizures are in effect, and unless you have enough antidote would _die_ at the end… But those aren't usually important factors for men like Heolstor."

"I'll kill him."

Thorongil looked up in surprise from what, to him, had been meant as a slightly humorous tirade, to find Araedhelm's face dark with murderous intent. Alright. _That_ had been the wrong thing to ramble on about. He had to be accurate in his account to Neylor, but he would really rather not paint a more detailed picture of what he'd been through for Araedhelm. "Araedhelm, maybe while Neylor and I are discussing this, you should…"

"That good for nothing, s—"

"Araedhelm, there are children in the house, at least lower your voice," Thorongil reminded him calmly.

It didn't calm Araedhelm down, or keep him from muttering a few choice expletives to himself, but when next he spoke aloud, he was producing more intellectual insults. "Gods above, the…" He clenched his teeth to keep from digressing into language his wife might disapprove of. "He was just torturing you for the enjoyment of it, wasn't he? For entertainment. He had a hostage, he had what he needed, and he decided trying out his latest poison on you might be _fun_. He didn't _need_ any _information_ from you."

"Are you done yelling yet, Lieutenant?" Neylor asked, in his slightly nasal, and wholly practical, voice.

"No, I'm _not_ done yelling yet."

Thorongil could see that Araedhelm was well and truly worked up this time, and he knew by experience just how hard it could be to stop Araedhelm once angered. To his relief, Neylor was doing a remarkable job. The old healer was as adept at handling irate relatives and friends as he was at healing.

"Sit down and be quiet, or leave the room. Try any combination, but quit interrupting, or I swear _I'll_ show you what giving in to anger looks like."

Araedhelm sat down heavily, silently channeling some of his anger in Neylor's direction.

Thorongil decided to balance Neylor's words with a few of his own. "There will be a time for that, my friend. Right now, I need to focus on giving all the details I can." _While I can, _Thorongil added to himself.

Araedhelm's rage deflated noticeably. "I'm sorry, Captain. I know… Just, don't expect me to be calm next time I see that…slime."

Thorongil snorted at the last-minute change of word-choice. "'Slime'? That's original, at least."

Araedhelm rolled his eyes.

"I hate to interrupt," Neylor interrupted, hardly sounding like he hated to do so. "But I would appreciate a few more details about this poison before I go off and try to produce a miracle cure. You were talking about the different 'stages', Captain?"

Although he knew the healer was, really, all heart beneath the grim exterior, Thorongil couldn't help but feel momentarily like he was back at the camp, being interrogated by Heolstor. This was the second time in the last few days he'd had someone writing down every word he said. However, he took advantage of Araedhelm being temporarily cooled off to get in some more detailed description. He tried to make it as factual as possible, but he rather wished Araedhelm would just leave and make it less painful on both of them.

"The second 'stage' was, obviously, worse. More painful. After a while, I felt numb again, but it was more like I was paralyzed but, somehow, still able to feeleven though I couldn't move. And then there were the muscle spasms."

Naylor, probably out of consideration for Araedhelm, didn't ask him to expound. He nodded for him to go on.

"The third time... That would be harder to explain, I…" Thorongil hesitated to say "I had just been beaten up by one of his men," considering Araedhelm's responses thus far. To his credit, though, Araedhelm was sitting quietly in the same spot, even if he did clench and unclench his jaw periodically. Thorongil decided to aim for vague and quick. "I had previously had a…run-in with one of the guards, so I wasn't exactly…completely…aware, even to begin with." He winced inwardly, but he knew Naylor would have required some explanation for why most of his memory of his last visit with Heolstor had been all but blank.

Araedhelm gave a snort, and muttered, "A 'run-in' with one of the guards…" but at least he retained his composure.

"Do you remember anything more?" Neylor pressed, disregarding Thorongil's reluctance, and Araedhelm's cynical comment.

Thorongil was more than ready to be done with subject, so he finished as briefly as he could. "Not much, between the effects of the poison and the…"

"Effects of the 'run-in'?"

"Yes, exactly so. Thank you, Araedhelm," Thorongil traded sarcasm for sarcasm evenly, with a smile and a nod. "I think there were more spasms, worse ones, and then I was…sick, for quite some time. And after that...everything's a blur."

Neylor finished writing down a few last notes, including suggestions Thorongil had made regarding likely possibilities for ingredients or the making of the antidote or poison. He had known for some time that the man had skills as a healer, but even so he found himself surprised by the breadth and insight of his knowledge. If it weren't for the fact that his mind and resourcefulness were urgently needed in planning to prevent the downfall of Rohan, Neylor might have suggested that the man himself help in the work on recreating the antidote. But then there was also the fact that supplies, equipment, and books were needed in the research, and getting either them to Thorongil or Thorongil to them involved far too many risks and complications… Ah well, the work would likely go much more quickly with Thorongil's aid, but he himself was nowhere near ignorant or unskilled in such matters. Still, the insight he had gained through this conversation into Thorongil's past training was most intriguing.

Securing the vial in a satchel he carried, he rose. "If you think of anything else, Captain—and I mean _anything_, no detail is too small—tell Feorh the next time she visits, and she can pass the message on to me."

"I will," Thorongil promised, lifting himself up on his elbows.

"And don't strain yourself unnecessarily." Neylor said it like a man who knew he wasn't being listened to, but continued to speak anyways because someday he _might_ be heard. "I'll see if I can make more of the antidote."

"Thank you."

Thorongil was expecting Araedhelm to burst out with something as soon as Neylor had left, but his lieutenant only remained seated, staring off into space. It was rather unnerving. "What?"

"I was just thinking, the next time I see that…"

"Slime?"

"Yes, exactly so. Thank you, Captain." Araedhelm's smile was ominous. "The next time I see that _slime, _he's going to regret ever stepping foot in Rohan."

**---o—oOo—o---**

Mehdal hated to leave his post outside Araedhelm's house even for a minute. After all, his men had already displayed their incompetence by letting the prisoners escape in the first place. If he were honest, though, that had been as much or more his own fault, since he was supposedly the leader of this outfit. At the least the mercenary he'd left on watch had _looked_ alert and intelligent.

He had to go, though, if he was to communicate with Heolstor, and with the men he'd left behind in the mountains. He dreaded telling Heolstor about the escape of the prisoners, but at least he had the news of their imminent recapture to temper the report with.

Mehdal, and the small contingent of mercenaries he'd brought with him, had followed Araedhelm, Thorongil, and Théoden to their new, and supposedly secret, hiding place. Mehdal had personally kept careful watch on them ever since, only taking occasional breaks when it became necessary. He was hoping Heolstor would return soon and dictate what should be done next. He knew the recapturing of the prisoners would need to be done delicately, and secretly, to keep from arousing the suspicions of the general populace. There was also the uncertainty of how Heolstor himself was doing in his endeavors to rid Rohan of the too-attentive friendship of Ecthelion.

Now, if those birds would just be there this time. His destination, the designated meeting grounds where the Crebain were to come, was in a reclusive sector of town, specifically, a room Heolstor had reserved in the upper story of an old inn. The birds hadn't been there yesterday, or the day before, and the suspense of being unable to send a message to Heolstor, and get it over with, was maddening. Especially since he had little else to do but sit and watch a house.

The inn-keeper recognized him, giving him an acknowledging glance, but nothing more by way of greeting. Whatever business he, Heolstor, or any of the other "strange" characters who used the room had, the proprietor didn't ask. After all, customers were few, and Heolstor's pay was steady and reasonable.

Mehdal went straight to the only window in the room, unlatching it and throwing open the dirt-smeared panes. It opened out onto a courtyard, with a small, communal well at its center. A few people were milling about, most of them just passing through, but near the well there were several boys. What caught Mehdal's attention right away was the current occupation of these children, which consisted of throwing sticks and pebbles at a couple of crows. The crows were cawing loudly in protest, but defiantly refusing to give up their positions.

There were his messengers.

The boys were merciless—or probably just bored—in their continual barrage. The "crows" continued their indignant cawing. Mehdal was about to of call out to the boys to stop, even knowing he'd only be adding "certifiably insane animal-lover" to his already notably strange reputation, but he was too late. One of the rocks found its mark, hitting one on the Crebain and nearly knocking it backwards into the well. There was a collective caw of indignation from the birds, and then they rose up as one, diving at the boys' heads vindictively before swooping for the skies. With much shrieking from both boys and birds, his messengers disappeared.

Mehdal rested his forehead against the windowsill. Surely his luck couldn't be _this_ bad.

* * *

**To be continued...**

For the sake of drama and realism I know I really should have let Ceryn die. What can I say? I'm a sucker for poor, ignominious OCs like him (fellow Trekkies, just consider all the Red Shirts! -sheds a tear for them- :-P ). I just Do. Not. Do. Tragedy. Well...for now I don't. These artistic types are so unpredictable, ya know. -eg-


	35. A Matter of Perspective

**A/N: **Bad author. Very bad, to be late. Alright, so, Bad Author has Stupid Cold (and so does beta)—so cut her some slack, pleeease? –kicked puppy-dog eyes- (And here you thought I was running low on excuses…) You guys are awesome, on the other hand, despite my extreme un-awesomeness of late. 300 reviews! My goodness, who woulda thunk it? Thank you!

* * *

**Chapter 35: A Matter of Perspective **

One of these days, _one_ of these days… One of these days, Heolstor was going to get what he deserved. The first objective Morwen had once she had her son back was to wipe that smug look off Heolstor's face once and for all.

"Just sign here, my Lord."

Expressionlessly, Thengel was reading the piece of parchment laid out for his viewing on the table. Heolstor positioned the quill and ink well at an accommodatingly accessible position next to Thengel's arm.

"Just sign here, and your country will be in capable hands in the case of your unfortunate demise. Only think, Eru forbid, should anything happen to your Majesties, the prince would be without guidance or help. Leaving the entire country in the hands of a child… Unthinkable." When Thengel still didn't make a move to sign the decree, Heolstor dipped the quill for him and held it out. "Once you sign your name, Rohan will be in safe hands, should such a tragedy occur. A horrible thought, but we must make precautions, mustn't we? "

Thengel took the quill from Heolstor, signing the decree which entitled Heolstor to more power than he'd trust most _good_ men with. Thengel thought of the message he'd received and felt hope. But still, even despite Ecthelion's help, what was he to do here, _now_? Théoden's life was still just as much at stake as before. He was between a rock and a hard place. Family or country. Selfishness or integrity, and he chose…selfishness. Certainly, he hoped to undo the consequences of his decision soon, now that he was assured Ecthelion's help, but still…

"A good choice, Sire." Heolstor dripped some wax from a nearby candle beneath the signature, let it harden just slightly, and pressed the king's signet ring into it. After it was dry, he gazed at the document contentedly before folding it and concealing it in his tunic. "A very good choice. If you will excuse me, my Lord—my Lady—I have some business to attend to."

Morwen fell into rather than sat down in her chair. They were home, or at least they were where home should have been. This place, once comforting and restful after a journey, had turned into their prison. There was hope because of Ecthelion's message. Much hope. But there were still so many "how"s and "when"s to be solved. In his message, Ecthelion had told them to take heart, he knew everything, and that he would be following with his men right in their footsteps. That was enough to encourage her, more than a little. The next part, however—the getting him inside the city part—that was the dilemma.

"My Lord, my Lady, may I have a word with you?" Feorh stood in the doorway. "It's about the cellar."

Confused as to why Feorh would be concerned herself over something so trivial, but glad to have something to take her mind off everything else, Morwen nodded for her to come in. "What about the cellar?" She noticed the bottle of wine in Feorh's hand. "Something to do with the wine?"

Feorh came closer, setting the bottle down on the table, and speaking in an undertone. "No, that was just an excuse, in case there were some of those buffoons guarding the door."

The old woman's face was aglow with some inexplicable inner happiness that Morwen, at the moment, couldn't comprehend.

Thengel had come closer now as well, viewing Feorh's obvious delight with as much bafflement as his wife. He raised an eyebrow by way of inquiry, inviting her to continue.

"I have the best of news. Your son, and Captain Thorongil, have both been rescued."

Morwen was glad she'd taken a seat.

Thengel promptly took one himself. "Rescued…" he repeated dazedly.

"_Yes_," Feorh whispered with adamant enthusiasm. "Rescued, by Lieutenant Araedhelm. I've seen them both, at the lieutenant's home. The captain was a little worse for wear, a bit bruised, but he was upright—always a good sign, that." She smiled fondly. "And the prince, he wasn't awake, but he looked so peaceful sleeping there…" She trailed off as she realized she was getting no immediate response. Morwen looked like someone had knocked the breath out of her. "My Lady?"

"You saw him, you actually saw him?" Morwen looked up, breathless surprise replaced by breathless wonder and joy. "They are here, in the city? Théoden is safe, and Thorongil too? Heolstor doesn't know where they are?"

"Yes on all four counts, as far as I know at this point in time, my dear. And from the looks of it, Cwén was doing a fine job taking care of them both."

Thengel was recovering as well, and grinning at the unexpected relief from all the fears and responsibilities that had been all but crushing him under their weight. "Can we see…" he stopped himself, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes. "Stupid question. Of course we cannot go see them. Not yet."

"But I can bring a message for you," Feorh offered. "I'm sure they'd both be glad to hear something from you, about how you're doing. All the while you've been worrying about them, I'm sure they've been equally worried about all of us."

Morwen smiled ruefully, thinking through what she might say if Théoden were standing right there before her. No words alone would suffice. "Give him a hug for me, Feorh, and tell him we both love him very much. And will see him soon."

Thengel thought of his son, and he also thought of the two men protecting him. Two men he knew would be, first of all, focused intently on protecting their prince, and second of all, on putting their heads together to devise some incredibly, incredibly insane scheme. "Feorh, did Captain Thorongil mention plans of any kind?"

"Plans?" Feorh had a thoughtful look on her face. "He didn't speak of any, not specifically, no… But I did rather get the feeling he had something in mind, and was waiting to hear from you."

That had been rather what he'd been expecting to hear. Thorongil came up with good strategies, some of them could definitely be called brilliant, but more often then not they could also be called vague. Thorongil had this theory about keeping plans "flexible," which inevitably meant half the time he couldn't define exactly what he had in mind to anyone else, at least in its earlier stages. Or so he'd heard Thorongil tell an impatient Araedhelm on more than one occasion.

"Alright…" Thengel said, and decided it was time to play a small surprise of his own. "I'll give you a message for Thorongil, then. Tell the captain that Ecthelion, along with some fifty men, is on his way to Edoras. Tell Captain Thorongil his first assignment is to find a way in for the Steward."

"He's coming…" Feorh gaped, remembering just in time to keep her voice lowered. "The Steward is coming _here_? I thought…"

"So did we." Thengel smiled. Springing surprises people on people like Feorh was always gratifying. Despite her advanced age, Feorh looked ready to bounce out the door to deliver the information he'd just given her. "But yes, the Steward is even now approaching. Tell Thorongil to be ready for him."

**---o—oOo—o---**

Mehdal was a patient man. Or so he had thought a couple of days ago.

Watching six perfectly warm, dry, and contented "prisoners," all cozy and happy together, for days on end, wasn't the worst duty he'd ever been assigned. Sometimes the glimpses of simple, domestic life he caught through the windows even brought a smile to his face. The children had become friends quickly. Their mouths were constantly in motion every time he saw them, which was usually only briefly as they shot by in a blur through his limited line of vision. The adults were doing a good job of keeping the young prince out of sight to outside observers.

He had to confess, it was actually very pleasant to watch, especially from the perspective an adult whose childhood had been an undesirable and dreary window of time in his life. Thinking back, he remembered wishing he had grown up a lot sooner than he had, which had of need been faster than most children as it was. Being a man and doing a man's work in a man's world, was a whole lot easier than being a child just entering his teens, and trying to be even older.

There were plenty of other reasons why being the primary man on look-out duty might not have been so unattractive a job. One major reason it _was _unattractive was that in order to watch the house, half the time he was left standing out in the rain. The elements weren't cooperating, and the situation was less than ideal, since the house was in a residential quarter. The nearest inns and taverns were too far away to see Araedhelm's house from, and he couldn't just knock on the nearest door and ask if he could rent out one of their rooms. "One facing the road, please. Oh, and I won't be leaving my room much at all for the next week or so, so don't mind me. Oh, and don't mind the rather unsavory men coming in and out, either…They're friends of mine."

And that left him out in the foul weather, switching positions occasionally to avoid drawing attention by "lurking" too much in one area, but mostly just whiling his time away in the alley adjacent to Araedhelm's home. Now that the rain had turned the ground beneath him into about three inches of mud, sitting down wasn't a comfortable option, never mind his dignity. Every inch of him ached, and every inch of him was drenched. Watching the fire-lit rooms of Araedhelm's house was turning into pure torture.

He could even see the table, set alternately with breakfast, then lunch, than dinner. Every time one of his oh-so-helpful and ever-punctual men forgot to bring him his meal, he got to stand there and watch Thorongil and the rest enjoy their meal. Which always looked ten times more hot and inviting than anything he was brought, when he _was_ brought anything. He didn't even have someone else to complain with over the injustice of it all.

"Heolstor has returned and is requesting your presence."

Mehdal came close to skewering the mercenary where he stood—which was directly behind him in the shadowed alley, far closer to him than any man should be able to covertly come. "For the last time, do _not_ do that," he hissed. There were definitely disadvantages to having men so well-trained.

The mercenary raised an imperious eyebrow in a superior expression that never failed to annoy Mehdal, but maintained every semblance of decorum in his speech. "Forgive me. I shall warn you of my presence next time." He rolled smoothly on to the purpose of his being there. Certainly not the conversational type. "I will take your place while you respond to Heolstor's summons. He is at the usual place."

This was one order Mehdal was not loath to obey. Well, not entirely loath to obey. It did mean he got to go somewhere warm and sit for a change, but there was the other…small matter. He secretly hoped one of the other men had let it slip that the prisoners had escaped—and already been cornered again—but he doubted it. He couldn't skirt around the problem, but he'd have to look for the favorable moment, and hope Heolstor was in a forgiving mood.

As if Heolstor's presence alone brought an aura of luxury with it, the room seemed transformed just by his being there. The transformation probably _was_ caused by Heolstor's presence—and, naturally, a whole lot of hasty work by some servants, prompted by the sound of a full purse. The roaring fire was the first thing that Mehdal noticed, and the only thing he really cared about, but after he'd had time to initially thaw, he did become aware of the newfound spotlessness of the room. Heolstor, enthroned on a cushioned chair on the other side of the fire, smiled benignly at his attempts to regain feeling in his limbs.

"Thank the gods we're not sleeping under the stars anymore."

_You're not, _Mehdal thought, feeling uncharacteristically rebellious at seeing Heolstor enjoying every comfort. And this was just a brief stop for him. Heolstor was probably, literally, living royally by now in Meduseld. He kept the sentiments to himself. At least Heolstor was in a good mood, which meant his news might go over even better than he'd expected. He smiled politely, and nodded in agreement. "I am sorry I could not get a message through, my Lord. Some…children scared the messengers away."

"Children." Heolstor scowled. "I suppose it couldn't be helped. You can report in a minute. First, I have some bad news for you."

"Yes?" Mehdal responded distractedly, still intent on thawing his fingers. He'd be lucky if he didn't lose a few…

"Your brother has betrayed us."

Mehdal was instantly stuck to the core with a different kind of cold. "What?"

"Yes…" Heolstor still sounded as bored as he himself had just a second ago. "Ceryn betrayed us. All this time, he's been harboring feelings for our enemies, but only recently did he work up the courage to show them. He tried to warn Ecthelion, who thankfully got the right impression of the man—that he was fool."

"_Was_?" Mehdal tried to sound as unaffected as Heolstor, and kept his face turned away towards the fire so his expression of increasing fear wouldn't be seen.

"Yes. Fortunately he was no better at betrayal than he was at anything else he did, and it got him killed."

Mehdal nearly choked in the middle of swallowing the lump in his throat. Killed. Betrayed. Heolstor couldn't be saying those words about Ceryn, and not like that, not as if his death didn't even matter. Not as if Ceryn had never mattered.

"I am sorry, Mehdal." Heolstor mouth curved in a wry smile that came close to looking uncharacteristically apologetic. "I know you liked him more than Rador."

Mehdal gritted his teeth to keep from saying anything. Heolstor didn't sound sorry at all—except maybe for the inconvenience. Oh yes, he "liked" Ceryn. Ceryn had been the better, kinder, gentler of the two of them. Just as Rador was crueler than he, so he was so comparably cruel in comparison to Ceryn. He'd loved his little brother so much. _Loved. _Was he slipping so easily already into using the past tense?

The ache of abrupt loss was terrible, and suddenly the only thing in the world Mehdal wanted was to be out of Heolstor's suddenly intolerable presence. Right now, nothing but the swelling grief in his chest mattered; not Heolstor, nor Heolstor's plans, nor riches, nor power. After all, those were all things he'd always sought not just for himself, but even more for Ceryn's sake. The cruel irony of it. All of it, for both of them.For himself, but just as much for Ceryn.Who was dead now.

Mehdal held the tears back, his throat becoming tight and beginning to ache from the effort. Whatever he was going to do next did not involve breaking down in front of Heolstor. He was glad to be turned towards the fire now, since he never would have been able to keep the pain off his features. "That is bad news." It took everything he possessed to say it so calmly, but he did.

"Yes…yes, it is."

"How did he die?"

"Oh, that's all very…dismal to be talking about right now, don't you think? I'm sure you'd rather not think about that right now. You'll be glad to know no permanent damage was done. As I said, Ecthelion didn't believe him, so that part of the plan went as smoothly as expected. We're almost done, my friend."

_My friend. _Mehdal wanted shove the words back down Heolstor's throat. Any man who could talk so casually of his brother's death was no friend of his. He could have easily killed Heolstor at that moment—just grabbed him and throttled him, or shook him to death, or gutted him with his knife, or hung him from the rafters and—

"Are you alright, Mehdal?"

"Oh, yes. I'm fine. Just a little tired."

"You should come with me, tonight. Now that I've emptied Meduseld of the King and Queen's more stubborn followers and deposited them in the dungeons, there are plenty of rooms available."

"I'm _very_ tired. I think I'll just stay here, if that is alright."

"Of course, of course. I assume the rest of the men are in Meduseld, or somewhere here in the city?"

Mehdal nodded. Heolstor was in such a cheerful mood, his own mood went unnoticed.

"Good. Stay here tonight if you want, but be there yourself early. Next, we must arrange some tragic accident for one or both of their Majesties. Thengel must go first, I think."

Mehdal gave a noncommittal grunt.

"Ah, that's right, you said you were tired. We can make these decisions tomorrow." Heolstor stood, picking his cloak up off the arm of his chair, taking his time about putting it on. "I am sorry for your loss, Mehdal."

_Your loss. Loss. _Mehdal was left with the words ringing in his ears. In any and every worst-case scenario he'd ever imaged, none of them had included Ceryn's death. His, maybe, considering how deeply entwined he was in Heolstor's plot. Rador he'd never seen as living long, given his love for violence. Ceryn, with his love for books, and quiet, and normal life…never.

"Why, Ceryn? _Why_ did you do it?" he whispered brokenly into the loneliness of the room, which felt all the lonelier for knowing there was now no one without who cared enough to enter and comfort him. "If you'd just given me a little more time…"

"_I am sorry for your loss, Mehdal." _Heolstor had sounded as emotionally devoid of empathy as ever. Why had he never noticed that lack of feeling, that utter lack of care for any being besides himself? The truth was, he had. But he'd ignored it, served Heolstor out of a misplaced sense of duty, and followed the part of himself that had desired everything Heolstor promised. And Ceryn, who had never wanted any of it, had paid the price for it.

Guilt, and anger, and shocked pain finally brought the first tear-drop trailing down his face.

"It's not my loss you should be sorry for, Heolstor. If I were you, I would start worrying about what _you_ might stand to lose." Not to mention, what he'd _already_ lost and was unaware of.

**---o—oOo—o---**

The greeting for Feorh that Cwén had on her lips died when she saw the stranger standing on her doorstep. Hospitality was something she tried to show indiscriminately, but between the surprise of it not being Feorh, or anyone else she might have expected, and the fearful voice within her whispering doubtfully: "He has a sword, he looks like a soldier—why would a strange soldier be knocking on your door?" she only stood there, frozen, staring at him. He could have been sent by Aeron. Or he could be one of Heolstor's men. She didn't see any other soldiers, though, and if he was from Heolstor, wouldn't he have brought others with?

The man was smiling a stiff, polite smile, while the miserable rain drizzled on, cascading off the slanted roof above him, showering him while he shifted uncomfortably on the doorstep. He didn't ask to come in, but offered hesitantly, "I...mean you no harm, my Lady."

"My Lady," was it? That was rather courtly. Cwén still felt uneasy, but he looked so miserable, and wet, and apologetic. "Who are you?"

"You would not know my name, but I am a friend. Please…may I come in?"

The rain and cold were blowing in, and there was such a sense of both physical discomfort and sorrow surrounding the man, she couldn't help but step aside. Cwén hardly had enough time to think, "What will Araedhelm say?" before Araedhelm spoke from the hall, voice booming with displeasure.

"_You_."

It wasn't a question, but a statement. A very angry one.

The wet figure in the doorway stood awkwardly just within the doorway, trying to be inconspicuous—a difficult thing to do when you're dripping all over the floor. He looked uncomfortable, sodden, sad, and weary, among other things, but not even slightly surprised by Araedhelm's greeting.

Araedhelm loomed, rigidly pulling himself upright to block the hallway. "You let him in?" he asked Cwén disbelievingly. Then a second thought occurred to him, and he amended, aiming his gaze once again at their visitor, "He didn't use force, did he?"

The man was still unperturbed, but not unapologetic. He seemed prepared for just such a reception, speaking with so much intrinsic rationality it even had an effect on Araedhelm's easily-aroused temper. "I did not use force. As I told your wife, I am here as a friend."

Araedhelm's temper, even partially assuaged, was impressive. "Did you really expect me not to recognize you? You may not have seen me, but I saw you many times while I was watching that camp. I don't suppose you had anything to do with the way Captain Thorongil was treated as a prisoner—maybe you just sat back and watched it all happen?"

"Yes, I did watch."

"You—"

"And that is something I will regret for the rest of my life. Not that my regret makes it any more forgivable, I'm sure, but I _do_ regret it. That is why I mean to make restitution, at least as much as I can."

Araedhelm continued to glare daggers at the man regardless.

Cwén considered for a moment suggesting they at least offer the man a seat while he explained, but she thought better of it quickly. She might need all the favor she could get in a moment, if she was to keep Araedhelm from killing the man right there in the hallway.

The man sighed deeply, and said quietly, as if to himself, "I knew the hardest part would be convincing you to let me help…"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Araedhelm demanded.

"Exactly what I said. I want to help. I know that can't be easy to believe, considering my record, but I am in earnest, and will do whatever it takes to prove to you that I am your ally. I only hope my initiation doesn't include something suicidal, as I can assure you I could be a valuable asset. If you accept my offer, I give you my word, I would die in your cause to ensure its success."

"Your word," Araedhelm scoffed. "And how do I know your 'word' means anything at all? If you would stand silently by while a child is kidnapped, and a man beaten and tortured for no reason other than entertainment, then I hardly think you're the kind of man I'd _want_ as an ally."

"I—"

"No, wait, don't tell me," Araedhelm interrupted mockingly. "You had a _change of heart_. You woke up one morning and, for no apparent reason, decided to do something decent for once in your life. Being cruel and heartless become a bit tiring after doing it on a daily basis for so long?"

"Yes, actually, it does. But I did not make this decision lightly, or for no reason."

"I don't know what kind of game Heolstor is trying to play by sending you here, but we're not as gullible as you, or he, seem to think."

"Araedhelm, why don't you give the man a chance to explain himself?"

"Captain," Araedhelm protested at Thorongil's sudden appearance. "I thought you were going to say hidden until—"

"Lieutenant, if you're going to kill the man, it hardly matters whether he sees me or not, now does it?" Thorongil studied the stranger evenly. "Mehdal. That is your name, is it not?"

"Aye, it is." Mehdal looked back just as evenly, but shame colored his words. "I was not sure you would remember me, considering the condition you were for most of the time during our brief…acquaintance."

"So you really didn't expect either of us to recognize you? You thought we would just—"

Thorongil shot Araedhelm a quelling look. "You had better explain yourself quickly, before my lieutenant stops displaying so much restraint."

Mehdal's mouth quirked in amusement briefly, an expression not lost on Araedhelm, and one which did nothing to undo his dislike for the man. The smile was quick to slide from Mehdal's face, though, as he thought of the explanation he had to offer. The camaraderie between these two men told him it would not be too difficult for him to explain.

"I trusted Heolstor. I trusted him, because he was the only one who'd ever trusted me with such responsibility, and because I have a younger brother I would do anything for…or, rather, I _had_ a brother I would have done anything for." Mehdal paused, both because his own emotions felt like they were about to make an undignified escape by means of tears, and in order to let his words sink in. He cleared his throat. "Now, I have no brother, and no further reason to put blind faith in a man I once followed."

Araedhelm was looking down at the floor, expression unreadable.

Thorongil's face was full of empathy and dawning comprehension. "Your brother died—by Heolstor's order?"

"I don't _know_," Mehdal said, voice low with undisguised anguish. All his dreams and aspirations that had seemed so solid but hours ago had been dashed, and he felt too worn out emotionally and physically to convince these men, whom he knew he had no right to be believed by. He'd never felt like he entirely belong to anyone, or belonged in anyplace, but Heolstor had given him a cause to be a part of. Never had he felt more isolated or insignificant then at that moment. His grief manifested itself in the form of a torrent of desperate words.

"I don't know why my brother decided to betray Heolstor's cause now, when he could have done it hundreds of times before, but he did. I do not know if his death was ordered by Heolstor, but I am not so blind that I will willingly close my eyes to the possibility. I trusted Heolstor with my life, and Ceryn's, and that is what I regret more than anything. In doing so, _I_ killed my brother. Whether it was by Heolstor's orders, or someone else's, I am responsible for involving him on the wrong side in the first place. I would be lying if I said none of my motives for helping you were about revenge, but I am _not_ lying to you when I tell you I _have_ motivation to fight against Heolstor. I will not follow a man with so little concern for anyone but himself any longer. To Heolstor, my brother's death was not only unworthy of more than a moment of his attention, but in his opinion, Ceryn was a fool for what he did. I see Heolstor for what he is."

Even if he did still harbor resentment of Mehdal's part, Araedhelm looked at least grudgingly sympathetic by the end of the heart-felt confession. Still, he wasn't one to allow his suspicions and anger to be assuaged so easily. "Yes, it's all very sad, and may very well be enough motive to turn against Heolstor for a man of any sense. If it's true. For all we know, you could be a fine actor sent here by Heolstor to win our trust."

Mehdal sighed. "I can offer you little proof as to my sincerity. But I ask you this—if Heolstor knew where you were, why would he go to the trouble of deceiving you? Why come up with some complex story when he could simply send some of his men to take you and have you safely under his control again? He wouldn't have any need to know your plans or future actions if you were once again his prisoners and incapable of acting against him. Even if you have others ready to act with you, what could they do without their leaders, and with you once again hostage against their co-operation?"

"That may make sense, but Heolstor has already proven himself beyond my comprehension." Araedhelm growled. "For all I know, sending you to play with us brings him some kind of _entertainment_. He's already shown quite well that his ideas of amusement—"

"Araedhelm," Thorongil spoke the single word quietly, but with an authority that cut his lieutenant off immediately.

Thorongil and Araedhelm made eye-contact for a moment, and came to a silent decision. Thorongil gestured towards the other room. "Come, I think we should talk."

* * *

**To be continued…**

**See, Heolstor? That's what you get for being a major-class jerk. Next time, buddy, work on expressing a little more genuine sorrow over having to kill your faithful lieutenant's little bro… XD **


	36. Backlash

**A/N: I sprained my wrist in karate lessons, so brief author's notes today. Closing in on the end of the story, here, and there's lots of action in this chapter (and I really, REALLY have trouble writing action, so please have mercy…). **

* * *

**Chapter 36: Backlash**

Aeron shifted in the straight-backed chair, rubbing his aching eyes with the palms of his hands. He was willing to wait as long as he had to, but he hoped he didn't _have_ to wait much longer.

Grimace and obey, that was all he could do since Araedhelm had started assigning him the worst duties available. With the small shopping trip, he'd been the only available option. In this case, Araedhelm had insisted that waiting for Ecthelion's arrival was not only too important a task to be trusted to someone of lower rank, but an ideal assignment for him in particular, because the appointed meeting place would be in the very village he grew up. The news had finally reached them: Ecthelion had slipped a letter to the king and queen, who in turn had slipped that message to Feorh, who in turn had slipped the message to them.

Aeron had ridden to the village—the very one Thorongil, Araedhelm, Théoden, and the rest of the men had stopped at after their escape—with all haste. Which had been completely unnecessary, as it had turned out. Ecthelion had given only a vague outline of time, a matter of hours, in which he would most likely arrive. Aeron had already been waiting for most of that time, sitting in the room of an inn that faced the road, watching incessantly.

The appointed place was "the inn," and since the inn he was in was the only inn in the small town, there was no question that he was at the right place. Thinking that sentence through was enough to make him dizzy, so he quit trying to make sense of it. Suffice it to say, he was at the right place. Ecthelion was running behind. Hopefully, he _was_ just running behind, and nothing more ominous had happened.

He was so engrossed in worrying, he almost missed the arrival for which he'd been waiting.

Aeron had seen the Steward on a number of formal occasions, and in any case would have had no trouble recognizing the regal bearing of the tall, dark-haired man who was even now approaching the inn. Besides, with five similarly dark-haired and noticeably non-Rohirric men following closely in his wake, Ecthelion didn't exactly make a quiet entrance into the rural village. The Gondorians had at least made the attempt to be inconspicuous by not wearing their royal livery, and were even now obviously trying not to stand out. Which wasn't working very well. Several passersby stopped to gawk. Aeron winced. There would be gossip alright, he just hoped it stayed in the village until the crisis was over.

Aeron left the room, hurrying down the hall towards the inn's common room, which also happened to be the town's only tavern, entering just as Ecthelion was coming through the door. A "my Lord" was just on the tip of his tongue, but he stopped himself, glancing around with a smile at the several occupants of the room, and instead said simply, with a short nod of acknowledgement, "This way, if you will?"

Ecthelion returned the nod, and he and his men followed Aeron back to the room he'd been occupying.

Aeron gave a more formal bow as soon as the door was closed between them and curious eyes. "Second Lieutenant Aeron, at your service, my Lord."

"Thank you for meeting me here. I apologize for the wait. We encountered some…difficulties."

"Difficulties?" Aeron asked, worry flaring back to life.

"Nothing to endanger our plans." There was the strong suggestion of an added "I hope," but Ecthelion didn't go into details. "I have a wounded man, though, who will need to remain here. Two of my men will bring him into town after we've departed. I was hoping we could make a…subtle appearance." From his wry expression, Ecthelion was clearly aware they hadn't exactly accomplished their goal. "The rest of my men are taking a detour around through less populated areas, and will meet us closer to Edoras. Again…I thought it would be best if we didn't make our presence too conspicuous."

"A wise precaution, my Lord. Even if word were to somehow reach Edoras before us, they would only know of the presence of a handful of Gondorians, rather than an army. Even so, these are simple folk, and although word will spread, the rumors will most likely be blown out of proportion, and colorful to say the least—I know from experience. But although there will be much talking, I don't think it will be very widespread, at least not before we have an opportunity to act."

"Experience, you say?" There was a twinkle in Ecthelion's eyes. "I'm glad to hear it, though. Still, we should leave as soon as possible."

"Very good, my Lord."

The sight of the mysterious, dark-haired, men—who were clearly warriors of some kind—leaving so soon after their appearance, was the cause of more inquisitive glances and downright staring. Ecthelion and his men handled it all with dignity, as if they didn't even notice. Aeron—knowing and known to most of the village since childhood—found the march out of town a little more uncomfortable. There _would_ be talking, and although his position in the army was general knowledge, he still wasn't looking forward to all the questions he'd have to answer on his next visit home.

**---o—oOo—o---**

"He should have been here an hour ago," Araedhelm grumbled, even while remembering not to raise his voice.

"Aeron will be here whenever he can, Araedhelm," Thorongil replied evenly. "We have until dawn."

"And if he doesn't get here until _after_ dawn?" Araedhelm pressed.

"There'll be another one." Thorongil ignored his lieutenant's exasperated huff. "Granted, I'd rather not have to wait that long. However, dawn is a long way off. There is no need to start worrying as of yet."

"No hurry. Right. 'There'll be another one'," Araedhelm muttered, running his fingers over the hilt of his sword, and continuing to move steadily back on forth in the limited space.

The three of them—Thorongil, Araedhelm, and Mehdal—were stationed in the guards' watch above the gate. Mehdal had preformed a bit of magic for them already, pulling rank on the men given guard-duty that night, as he had earlier to get rid of the men in order to enter Araedhelm's house unobserved. Not that much rank-pulling had been required to force the men to "let" him have the undesirable duty, and he hadn't even felt the need to tell them not to speak of his having relieved them. If they received some unscheduled time off from their duties, why should they go spreading the word around instead of making themselves scarce before he had a chance to change his mind?

From his position on the floor, Thorongil tried to settle his back comfortably against the wooden slats that composed the walls. He'd given up trying to reform Araedhelm just days after meeting him; there would be no changing the lieutenant's generally restless temperament. Furthermore, at times like this it meant he didn't have to keep watch, or assign the task to someone else. There was no way Araedhelm would miss anyone's arrival.

Thorongil watched his lieutenant with some wonder, as he exerted enough energy for all three of them. It wasn't that he was without sympathy. There was something stirring in the air that night that might have made him pace too, if he weren't so intent on conserving his strength, trying to keep the poison in his veins at bay long enough to be of use to his friends. But the impetus of impending war was thick around them, like the damp "smell" of rain before a downpour. The quiet before the storm. It was probably just the impatience rolling off the three of them, but they all knew before the night was through many fates would be decided by what they could or could not accomplish.

Araedhelm's other pastime, in addition to pacing and complaining, and generally rumbling his displeasure, was shooting Mehdal suspicious glances. There was no way Mehdal was on _his_ list of allies yet. Thorongil could see easily enough that the second source of Araedhelm's restlessness sprang from the fear that they were being pulled into a trap. He wasn't without reservations himself, but there came a point where they had to trust someone. If they didn't trust Mehdal, getting Ecthelion and his men in without being detected would probably be impossible. Come to think of it, even with Mehdal's help, it was still going to be a challenge. _Sneaking _a small army in through the front door was actually rather laughable to think about. But that was just what they were proposing to do.

"Captain, I think they're here."

The tentative knock that sounded on the door soon after sent Araedhelm hurrying down one of the flight of stairs that descended from either side of the lookout, Thorongil and Mehdal following composedly.

A breathless Aeron slipped in as soon as the door had been unlatched, and reported under his breath, "The Steward…and his men…not far behind me."

They waited silently, Aeron catching his breath and the rest of them listening, until muted footfalls could be heard approaching. Araedhelm opened the door partway once again, and a welcome face appeared, though shadowed by the hood pulled forward to partially conceal it.

"Lord Ecthelion," Thorongil greeted briefly. "I think it best the men split up into several groups. My Second Lieutenant can take some and move to the right," he nodded towards Aeron, "and Mehdal can take some to the left. They know the layout of Edoras, and can blend in quickly. We have made preparations, and I have already established a time for regrouping with both of them."

Deferring to Thorongil's leadership, Ecthelion nodded, sending whispered orders down the line as the rest of his men filed in quietly, moving efficiently but with an admirable amount of stealth, as they divided to follow Aeron and Mehdal. He knew full well he was hardly in a position to be making the overall decisions, comparably blind to the current condition as he was, and recognized that Thorongil had things as organized and planned as the conditions permitted.

"If you will come this way, my Lord, we can go to a place where we may speak in more privacy," Thorongil continued, after the last of the men had come through and Araedhelm had closed the gate again.

The three of them hurried through the darkened streets, Araedhelm leading them through less-frequented alleys and byways until they arrived at this house. Cwén had been waiting for them, and opened the door before they could even knock.

Discussion began immediately. Thorongil and Araedhelm led most of it at first, filling Ecthelion in on what they'd been planning, asking his opinion, and describing the layout of the important areas of both Edoras and Meduseld in as much detail as they could, with the aid of a few maps. Feorh had been back to visit a few times since Thorongil and Araedhelm's initial arrival, and had given them more detail on exactly what was going on in Meduseld, who was being held where, the condition of the king and queen, and so on. They in turn relayed everything to Ecthelion. After discussing further what their plan of attack would be—namely, _attacking_—they fell into silence. It felt awkward simply because it seemed there _should_ be more to say.

Thorongil shook his head, refraining from running a hand over his face—yet another gesture the bruises on his face didn't appreciate. "That would seem to be it. We'll have to see how things go, count on the element of surprise, and think quickly on our feet."

Araedhelm was a little incredulous, though not displeased, to find all their decisions come so quickly to an end. With some amusement, he asked, "So, this would be your long thought-out plan, Captain?"

Thorongil's smile was enigmatic. "I've found from past experiences that the tighter your plan, the more likely you are to run into something unpredictable."

Ecthelion smiled as well. "Wisdom if ever I heard it. Shall we proceed to the meeting place?"

**---o—oOo—o---**

"The men are ready, and waiting for your orders," Aeron reported quietly.

Behind him, Mehdal nodded his agreement.

Where they stood outside the tavern their only light was that of the rising sun, which was presently just a faint, golden luminescence on the Eastern horizon. The five of them—Aeron, Mehdal, Thorongil, Ecthelion, and Araedhelm—had seen a few people going past, but the citizens of Edoras had become adroit at turning a blind eye toward all the strange things happening around them in recent days. After all, there wasn't much they could do about anything, and most of them had little idea what was actually going on.

"Aeron, you and Araedhelm will take two small groups—take ten men each—and begin scouring the city for Heolstor's men," Thorongil explained in as few words as possible. "There should be a number of sentries, but they should be scattered and easy to handle. Mehdal, you will be with the Steward and myself. I will need you to make your way to the dungeons as soon as we are inside, and free the prisoners. The guards do not know yet of your recent change of sides, which should make it easier. Take some men with you as well."

Aeron and Araedhelm both nodded, and headed off briskly. Soon, the main body of men Ecthelion had brought with him, along with those Rohirrim warriors who had been alerted and close enough to be gathered in time, began to emerge from the alleys, as well as the tavern and an inn a short distance down the street and across the way, one section streaming quietly along either side of the road. Ecthelion and Thorongil exchanged impressed glances. Mehdal and Aeron had done a good a job of finding places for the men to lay low and ways to blend in.

With a last nod of acknowledgement, Thorongil, with Mehdal at his side, moved quickly across the road to take charge of the other men, while Ecthelion took command of the men approaching on his side. The transition went more smoothly than they'd dared to hope it would.

Thorongil motioned to the men behind him to follow, and they began to procession up the steadily increasing slope towards Meduseld. As the silhouette of the building came into sight, Ecthelion gestured for his men to veer even further to the left, and Thorongil for his to follow him further to the right. They had decided beforehand that, obviously, the further they could get without being detected, the better. Instead of giving themselves instantly away by attacking via the main stairs, they moved their forces around to either side of the stone foundation Meduseld was built upon. It was still plenty dark, and they accomplished that much without being spotted. The next part—taking the two guards out without them making a noise—would be a little more precarious.

Thorongil had to chuckle inwardly at the thought. As if any of this wasn't precarious. All the years he'd been serving Rohan he'd been working to make sure Meduseld was secure. He never thought he'd be looking for a way to sneak forces in and then _invade_ it.

Knowing the Steward would be doing the same on his side, Thorongil motioned to the men behind him to wait, then reached upward to grab the ledge that was the top of the stone foundation. Thankfully, it was as accessible as he'd estimated. Having to forgo all that was manly and dignified and ask one of his men for a hand up wasn't something he would have done with relish.

He was able to pull himself up without aid, though not without some hastily-concealed pain as his healing ribs and bruises protested against the movement. The ideally-situated entrance pillars hid him from the immediate view of the guards, and he stood behind one, catching his breath and begging his body not to betray him before this fight was over, while he waited for Ecthelion to appear on the other side and give the signal for them to attack.

The guards briefly saw what hit them with much surprise and gaping, but they never got their swords out of their sheaths before the hilts of Thorongil and Ecthelion's swords knocked them unconscious. Captain and Steward caught their first vanquished foes of the evening, and lowered them soundlessly to the ground, dragging them out of the doorway. They hurried back to motion to the men below to follow. With the guards out of the way, the rest of them could move more quickly by taking the stairs.

The halls inside were only dimly lit, most of the inhabitants still asleep, and the guards they first met were caught by surprise. But they weren't able to sustain the upper hand through stealth for long, as their first assault became a miniature battle against a few more men, and then more, until there was no use trying to be quietabout it.

"Thorongil—see to the King and Queen!" Ecthelion urged. "Quickly, before Heolstor can use them against us."

Thorongil nodded, sending Mehdal off towards the dungeons. He glanced around before slipping out of the fray and heading in the direction of the royal quarters, but couldn't see any soldiers not currently engaged in fighting who might be able to accompany him. Leaving now felt distastefully like fleeing, but he knew it was vital to reach Morwen and Thengel before Heolstor came to the same conclusion they had: that nothing short of a hostage was going to stop them. Besides matching approximately matching Heolstor's own men in numbers, their forces had more personal reasons to fight.

With head forward so that his features were not immediately discernable, he approached the two soldiers who stood guard over the door to the royal quarters. So far covert plans had served them well, and, although they might recognize him as one of the prisoners that escaped from the camp, if he could just delay that for a moment things might go quite smoothly.

"You! Who are you—what's going on out there?" one of them demanded, sounding nervous and ready to bolt—whether toward or away from the fight. Even back here, the noise of swords could be heard, echoing from the entrance.

Thorongil didn't pause in his stride as he approached the door. "I have a message for the King and Queen."

"Wait a minute, weren't you one of the—"

Now standing between them, Thorongil was perfectly situated to take both of them out with a crack of his hilt into the head of the speaker, and quickly succeeding punch aimed at the face of the second. He shook his head, incredulous, at the two slumped forms on the ground. Someone had to start teaching their men how to block a weapon or fist—or at least how to _duck_. Besides, you don't stop to ask an escaped prisoner if he actually _was_ an escaped prisoner in the first place.

He stepped over one of the men, who'd sprawled across the doorway, and turned the knob.

"Thorongil?"

"Well, your Majesty, I've had many names given to me at various times, but as of now, yes, Thorongil would be the name I seem to be going by." Thorongil smiled at Morwen, something inside him relaxing at the sight of both of them still alive and reasonably well. Rohan's royal family might yet come out of this safely.

Both Morwen, and Thengel behind her, had stark relief on their faces. The queen was talking uncharacteristically quickly, words tumbling over each other, and Thorongil and Thengel's eyes met in greeting and amusement over the top of her head.

"We were so worried after the two of you disappeared, and then the message… I wanted to believe Feorh so badly when she brought us the news that you were both free, but I could hardly believe it, but now that I've actually seen you… Théoden _is_ alright?" Morwen questioned pointedly.

"Yes," Thorongil replied firmly. "He is safe. I assigned some men to stay and watch him. But we should not linger here. Heolstor could come at any time." He noticed for the first time that not only were the two of them dressed in night-clothes with hastily donned robes pulled over, but there wasn't a weapon in sight. "Wait a moment." He stepped outside and relieved the guards of their swords and sheaths and then returned. "Here." He handed one to Thengel, and, with a smile and a courtly bow, one to Morwen. "My Lady Morwen Steel-Sheen, Shield-Maiden of Rohan and Gondor."

She pursed her lips in a mock-annoyance at the teasing title, buckling the belt and scabbard around her waist. Morwen was tall for a woman, but even at its tightest notch, the belt hung so low the end of the sheath nearly scraped the ground. She gave Thorongil a mild look of amusement. "Well, this is actually quite…" she shifted the belt with a wry expression. "…awkward. I think this 'Shield-Maiden' could use a _shield_." She knew, no matter the amount of practice, none of her lessons had prepared her enough for the real situation she now found herself in. Thengel may have shown her how to handle a sword, but it would be another matter if she had to swing a blade with the intent to kill, or be killed.

Thorongil held her gaze briefly. "I hope you won't have to use it at all, my Lady. Just a precaution." Thorongil motioned to them to go first into the adjoining room. He knew there were several exits from their quarters, and leaving in a different direction might be a good idea.

Morwen nodded, giving up on trying to adjust the ill-fitting piece of equipment and accepting Thengel's guiding hand on her arm. Her husband's protective presence beside gave her more confidence. And, of course, there was the fact that Théoden was finally safe.

Thorongil followed behind them. But, just as they were almost through the doorway, he heard the sound of footsteps outside the door. More then one or two sets. There was no way of knowing whether it was friend or foe, and Thorongil didn't relish the thought of waiting, endangering Thengel or Morwen to find out.

"Go," Thorongil whispered to Thengel.

"Thorongil—"

"My Lord, the best thing you can do right now is get yourself and Morwen somewhere safe and out of the way. We don't want another hostage situation. Please, _go_."

They barely left in time. The door slammed open, revealing the last face Thorongil wanted to see at that moment. _Eru, I should have brought some men with me… _The truth was, he'd thought this would be a quick procedure, and that if Heolstor came it would be alone. They'd already divided the men into so many sections, they'd needed all the men they had out there fighting… _It was still a stupid thing to do. One of the stupider things you've done in what is soon to be your abruptly-ended career, _his inner-voice derided. He didn't have time to beat himself up mentally. He had to fight with confidence, as if he expected to win. Heolstor was there, and decidedly _not_ alone. At least he had gotten Morwen and Thengel out of there, and armed. He had to hold these men off, no matter what.

"I must admit, Captain, I had rather been expecting to find someone else here," Heolstor commented, entering the room with an entourage of four behind him.

Thorongil smiled grimly. The amount of uncharacteristically blank surprise on Heolstor's face was extremely gratifying. And at least delaying long enough for the king and queen to get further away shouldn't be a problem. Getting Heolstor to talk away a few minutes' time was never a difficulty, and apparently now that the cat was, figuratively, out of the bag, the man couldn't stop gloating—even if his plan was failing miserably.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," he said shortly.

"Oh, I wouldn't exactly call it a disappointment. A surprise, certainly." Heolstor was recovering, mask of complete control back in place. If there was one thing he did not like, it was to appear out of control, emotionally or otherwise. In situations like this, he always purposed to hold back such melodramatic outbursts as, "I thought you were a prisoner!" or more relevant to the present circumstances perhaps, "You're _supposed_ to be _dying_!"

Thorongil, none-the-less, saw the question flicker through his eyes. He couldn't help but smirk. "Your poison not quite as potent or lethal as you thought it was?" _He_ knew it was—could feel its chill at the back of his mind—but he couldn't pass up the opportunity to play with Heolstor's mind a little.

Heolstor made a noise of irked rejection of the idea. "No. I don't think so. I'm not the one in denial, here. I know it's doing what it was created to do." He took a few steps closer to Thorongil, his men hovering at the ready in the background. "Either you've found a way to recreate the antidote…or else you must be coming to the end of what little antidote I had made. You took that, didn't you, before you left the camp? I must say, I'm dying to know how you escaped. But you probably won't have the time to tell me, will you?"

Thorongil didn't say anything, but met his gaze with complete evenness. It had always been a clash of wills between the two of them, even when they hadn't yet been declared enemies.

"You're dying, Thorongil. Very soon, you'll relapse and die a painful death. But I'm sure you've already figured that out." Heolstor nodded his head in the direction of the door, where the sound of swords clashing was becoming more distinct. "I'm afraid I have pressing business to attend to. But you have several choices here, Captain. You could kill me—or at least try to in your weakened condition. In that case, I may mercifully decide to give you a quick death at the end of my sword. Or, against all odds, you could win and kill _me_—and die from the poison. Your choice."

Thorongil drew his sword.

"I should have expected as much. I should have known better than to hope you'd ever see a situation from my point of view. Captain Thorongil…" Heolstor shook his head, sighing. "Noble, heroic…and such an unbelievable fool, right to the very end."

* * *

**To be continued…**

There's a paraphrased MacGyver quote in this last chapter, should anyone notice. (Hey, it's my MOM who likes RDA, and my bro who likes watching him blow things up. I, personally, think it's terribly contrived and corny. Really. –smiles innocently-)


	37. Retaliation

**A/N: **Wow, I can't believe I'm finally posting the climax! Lot's happening now. ;-)

I just want give some special thanks and aknowlegement to my beta, Imbecamiel, for all the hard work she put into this section in particular. Despite the increased work-load she's had, she's stuck with me on this story, and really poured a lot into polishing this chapter up. (And to thank her, I got all grumpy with her, today, over something trivial... -sniffle- Consider this my groveling apology, muinthel. -grovels and proffers chocolate-)

* * *

**Chapter 37: Retaliation **

Araedhelm fought instinctively, reacting to onslaughts almost before a threat registered with his mind. He only took the time to differentiate between friend and foe before letting his training, and the instincts accumulated over long years of fighting, take control.

These men they were fighting were his enemies on more than one count. All of them were Heolstor's men, and all of them responsible: directly, indirectly, or just in general. They were responsible.

There was Théoden. Araedhelm's some-day sovereign—and only a child. They'd kidnapped him. Threatened him. Would have _killed_ him. Had forced both the king and queen to comply to Heolstor's wishes, insulting them and tormenting them with the fate of their child and their country.

Araedhelm all but snarled as he deliver the killing blow to his current opponent.

The thoughts continued to play in his mind, fueling his need for retribution.

There was Thorongil. His friend, his Captain, and one of the best men he knew. Held prisoner and tortured, _twice_. Once, to extract a "confession," and once simply because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time and managed to get caught up in their kidnapping. Poisoned. For Heolstor's _amusement_.

Araedhelm's next adversary was forced back under a rain of fast and furious slashes. He met his end quickly—but Araedhelm was already on to his next enemy, even as his last one fell.

This was war, and these men were on the wrong side, and Araedhelm could feel no pity for them. They would receive no quarter from him after what they'd done—and nearly accomplished.

There did come one rival, however, who gave Araedhelm a reason to pause. It was the sword the man wielded that momentarily halted him. He recognized the beautifully-crafted weapon. He only needed a glimpse of it to know, without a doubt, that the blade belonged to Thorongil. _Had_ belonged to Thorongil, before this man got his hands on it.

Araedhelm's eyes moved from the sword to the face of its current wielder. He thought he might have recognized the man, was fairly sure he was among those present in the camp where Théoden and Thorongil had been held. Perhaps he'd seen him before, or perhaps he hadn't. But that was not what mattered. What mattered was that the man was _not_ the owner of the sword, and Araedhelm was going to make sure he wasn't capable of wielding it for much longer.

Whoever the man was, he was a dead man now.

**---o—oOo—o---**

It wasn't as if he gave up _all_ hope when the five men began closing in on him, swords drawn.

Thorongil had hidden resources of optimism he hadn't yet begun to utilize. Granted, his supply of positive thoughts had been dwindling of late, but it wasn't as if he was entering this fight with a suicidal mentality. Killing Heolstor, and quite possibly dying from the poison if the antidote wasn't reproduced in time, wasn't a cheerful outcome to contemplate. However, he was hoping to not only take out Heolstor and his four men, but to actually only knock him unconscious in the process. Alright. So sometimes optimism was rather…idealistic.

What he was really hoping was that Ecthelion and his army would wrap the battle up and come looking for him.

Five against one. They were odds he'd faced before. _More_ on various occasions, actually. And he'd survived. Usually just barely, and almost never without injury of some kind. Definitely not thoughts to dwell on.

"Considering your options a second time?" Heolstor taunted.

"Actually…" Thorongil raised his sword in a salute. "I was wondering why your men keep betraying you. I've never admired you, personally, but I took you for a more competent leader."

That insult was enough motivation to start the clash of swords. Thorongil had slowly been edging backwards, so that the wall behind him would keep them from surrounding him entirely. Heolstor was the first to attack, anger making his strike rigid and fierce. Thorongil blocked it firmly, then had to move quickly to knock away the next blow from the man to his left. Block another blow from Heolstor. Kick the man to his right in the gut. Repeat procedure on the man to the left. It gave him a few precious seconds to keep up with Heolstor's renewed onslaught.

"One moralistic _idiot's_ betrayal doesn't make me a deficient leader, Captain," Heolstor replied to the previous comment, feigning to the left and then switching suddenly to the right.

"Who said anything about one man?" Thorongil brought his blade upward to block the maneuver. "I know of two, so far." Thorongil gave an unexpected shove, causing Heolstor to stumble back, and giving him a chance to catch up on his other opponents.

His hand-and-a-half sword was heavier and more awkward than he would have liked, given the situation, but his elven training gave him a decided edge. The man to his right gave up clutching his stomach, though he remained slightly hunched over as he attacked heatedly with his weapon. A parry, and a lunge in rapid succession, and he had one less enemy. Of course, there were still four of them, including Heolstor, and the two hanging back were only too happy to take the place of their fallen comrade.

Heolstor, apparently, had had enough of this talk of incompetence and traitors. "Having trouble? Not feeling at the top of your performance today?"

Thorongil would have rolled his eyes had he the time. Top of his performance? Some loss of finesse had to be expected when you were fighting for your life against five—now four—men at once. Instead of deigning to respond to the question, he focused on the tentative rhythm of blocking each opponent without getting skewered himself. Fortunately for him, Heolstor's men were somewhat reluctant to press him as hard as they might, for fear of taking a much-anticipated personal victory away from their leader. And as much as the number of his opponents was a disadvantage, it also had the benefit or slowing them down somewhat as they attempted to avoid injuring each other or getting in one another's way. Unfortunately, in the long run they could afford to be slower, the slight "advantage" to him only delaying the inevitable.

Heolstor fed on every triumph, even small ones like this. And he knew triumph was just around the corner. A battle was waging outside, one that would decide whether all his labors would pay off or not. But eliminating Thorongil once and for all would not only be ridding himself of a formidable enemy, but at the same time it would satisfy his more personal vendetta. Petty, perhaps, but even if everything was for the time being, he would have wrapped up one loose end. Thorongil was sure the possibility of being defeated utterly hadn't yet entered Heolstor's mind. "How long has it been since you had your last dose of antidote? Must be beginning to wear off by now. Painful? Cold? I wish I had the time to ask you in more detail."

_Mordor take it all… _Thorongil fought Heolstor with more aggression then he had up to that point. He was tired of thinking about that cursed poison. It _was_ starting to affect him again—the tremors, the nausea, the excessive tiredness slowly creeping in—but the last thing he needed to do was think about that while he was fighting. Adrenaline _had_ been helping, but Heolstor just had to keep reminding him that he wasn't fighting at his best. His movements had already been beginning to feel sluggish, and the expenditure of energy needed to fight offensively with Heolstor instead of defensively—as his common sense _usually_ advised him to do in such situations—was wearing him out too rapidly.

Thorongil's attempts to simultaneously focus on Heolstor, and fight off the men on either side, became more clumsy. It took effort, but he forced his thoughts away from the poison, and the way his fingers were beginning to feel numb, and centered them on what he had to do to survive. He kept himself from fighting desperately, kept his head, and made his strokes decisive, if not refined. Unfortunately, just because they were solid strokes, didn't mean they were necessarily fast enough.

He held his own against an arching, downward slice from Heolstor. But in the process, he left himself open for too long to attack. There was a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, only a second to comprehend the danger he was in, and try to back out of the way, all the while holding his blade aloft to fend of Heolstor's. Thanks to his reflexive step back, it wasn't as bad as it could have been. It was still bad enough.

The lunge from the man to his right left a shallow horizontal slash across his chest. He gasped, his free hand automatically clutching the bleeding wound. Even though he was reeling from the pain, on some level he realized just how graceless and pathetic his attempts at protection became after that. Pathetic or not, he did managed to block Heolstor's sword again. Only to be slammed into the wall behind him with enough force to knock the wind out of him. Whoever had done the slamming pressed brutally on his fresh wound, and he couldn't keep back a startled cry.

His vision was blurry, and sensation undeniably painful and askew, but he could hear something. Odd, it sounded like someone was yelling. It was as if there was an echo of his own outcry, only it sounded…angry. The pressure digging into his wound relented. He fell forward to his knees, steadying himself with one outstretched arm.

Dully, head spinning from disorientation, he came to realize that, while he _should_ be dead, he _wasn't_. His eyes finally began to comprehend some of the details of what was transpiring around him. Heolstor's men were lying on the floor near him, both the one he'd killed and the three others. Sprawled haphazardly, there was blood on all of them, but he couldn't tell for certain whether they were dead or merely unconscious.

Sweat dripped into his eyes, and with a tired blink Thorongil looked up. And saw Heolstor and Araedhelm going at each other ferociously with swords. Strange…somehow the noise hadn't registered. Both of them seemed to be taking the offensive, feeding their mutual anger with harsh but effective blows. If either of them slipped, the other lashed out with enough force to decapitate the other, had the blow landed. But both of them also seemed to be right on top of their reflexes as well, ducking and dodging, and thrusting again. In his nauseated state, the sight was dizzying.

If Heolstor looked angry, Araedhelm was past furious. Thorongil could see that, in the rare occasion either one of them gained an inch on the other, it was usually his lieutenant.

Abruptly, the fight was over. Araedhelm brought his sword down on Heolstor's powerfully, and close to the hilt. It clattered to the ground. Araedhelm raised his sword again.

"Araedhelm—wait!" Thorongil shouted, adrenalin suddenly snapping reality back into place around him as he realized what was about to happen.

Araedhelm kept his eyes and weapon firmly trained on his vanquished foe. "I told you I'd kill him, Captain. This isn't cold blood, either. He's earned this fair and square, and I've just won the right to deliver justice. Just be thankful it's quick—"

"Araedhelm, _no_." Thorongil winced as he struggled to gain his feet. "I of all people know he deserves it, but—"

"Then let me."

"The _antidote_, Araedhelm. Only he knows the ingredients. And I need more…soon." Thorongil could see the heat of his anger waver, hesitate, and then fade. The hatred was still there, but under control.

Araedhelm kicked Heolstor's sword out of reach and put the sword to his throat. "Don't cause any trouble, or I'll be _forced_ to do something about it, as _distasteful_ as that would be."

"Captain Thorongil! Lieutenant!"

"We're in here, my Lord Steward," Araedhelm answered, in response to the voice calling their names from the hall.

A rather disheveled Ecthelion entered the room, along with Anborn and Mehdal. All three of them looked bruised up and the worse for wear, Anborn looking particularly filthy. All three of them also had smiles hovering at the corners of their mouths—which turned into full-blown grins of relief upon seeing Araedhelm and Thorongil.

"It would appear the two of you missed the rest of the battle," Ecthelion said, regarding Thorongil, then Araedhelm, and finally Heolstor. "But I can see you've been busy doing something worthwhile."

Thorongil watched Heolstor's expression, and his eyes in particular, as Ecthelion spoke. There was flash of disbelief, quickly killed, and all the while Heolstor kept his jaw firmly clenched, as if to keep any undignified bursts of anger from escaping. As enthralling as it was to be seeing Heolstor get his due, Thorongil had more pressing matters on his mind. "The King and Queen…"

"Are safe," Ecthelion interjected, seeing his fear.

"And the rest of the men?" Thorongil tried to ignore the throbbing slash beneath his fingers, and the way his head was beginning to feel too light. The blood was beginning to clot, though—he could feel the flow lessening already.

Ecthelion's face darkened. "There are casualties…of course. The healer—Neylor—is seeing to the wounded now. Aeron is overseeing the incarceration of Heolstor's men."

"Good, good…" Thorongil nodded, finally allowing himself to relax a fraction.

"Anyone have some rope?" Araedhelm interrupted behind them, pressing Heolstor into a chair, and looking very much like he'd rather make him sit on the floor. "This one's going to be answering a few questions before he's introduced to his own cell—unless the King decides he should go straight to the gallows after we're done."

Mehdal produced some cord and handed it to Araedhelm, meeting Heolstor's dark, incredulous gaze, before turning away. Mehdal's expression wasn't exactly one of shame, but almost more of a pitying kind of sadness. Heolstor's response was one of shock at the betrayal, which quickly melted into fury and unreceptive coolness towards the pity. Thorongil noticed for the first time that Heolstor was injured—a flesh-wound to his left shoulder—but he bore himself as proudly as ever.

Today seemed to be the day for catching Heolstor by surprise. Thorongil could see the precise moment his own former statement hit home: _"Who said anything about _one_ man? I know of two, so far." _The stormy gaze turned on him, but Thorongil could see an undercurrent of begrudging admiration, or at least some kind of professional acknowledgment of skill.

Thorongil strode over to where Heolstor sat, sullenly allowing Araedhelm to tie his hands together in front of him. He leaned closer to whisper in Heolstor's ear, "It wasn't me, _Captain_, who convinced Mehdal to change sides. It was you. Did you really think news of his brother's death would have so little an effect on him?"

Heolstor's face stiffened almost imperceptibly, and he finally said the first words since his capture, "You won."

A shudder, completely unrelated to the poison, ran down Thorongil's spine. He couldn't meet Heolstor's eyes for long. So much miserable, defeated, bitter anger… He couldn't imagine being filled with so much raw hate for his fellow man in general.

"Captain, how badly are you hurt?" Araedhelm appeared to be taking his first real look at Thorongil. If there was one thing that could get his interest away from hacking Heolstor into pieces, it was the sight of his captain bleeding.

Thorongil hadn't exactly forgotten about the injury or the poison, but he had been doing a pretty good job of disregarding both. Why was it that everyone felt the need to keep reminding him? He was _trying_ to avoid collapsing in front of Ecthelion, Heolstor, and everyone else. The battle was over. Heolstor was captured. He just had to make it back to his room… Or maybe not. Apparently he had to make it somewhere where he could be treated. Araedhelm would take care of "questioning" Heolstor about the antidote. He just had to get out of here before he collapsed. Curse it all, but his head hurt… "I think I'll just…" He noticed then that Araedhelm was at his side, face full of concern.

"Captain, is it the poison?" Araedhelm asked urgently.

"I…don't know. I'm afraid so." In his peripheral vision, Thorongil could see Ecthelion, and Anborn, and even Mehdal looking at him with concern. His ears were ringing alarmingly. Eru. He _was_ going to collapse after all. "Sorry, Araedhelm," he murmered. "Didn't mean to do this to you…again."

**---o—oOo—o---**

Araedhelm glared relentlessly at his unrepentant prisoner. Heolstor was completely indifferent. He'd recovered annoyingly quickly from his surprise, and now hardly looked like a man who'd just lost everything he'd worked towards for years—perhaps even for most of his life.

After Thorongil had passed out, Araedhelm had caught him and lowered him to the floor. His new injury appeared superficial, the gash painful but hardly deep enough to make him faint due to blood-loss. But Araedhelm knew what was responsible for Thorongil's condition. The only thing more attractive to him than helping carry his captain to a room and seeing to his injuries was the thought of giving _Heolstor_ a few injuries of his own.

Unfortunately, Anborn had to ruin all his fun by offering to help with the interrogation. _More like keep me from killing him outright… _And glaring at Anborn was as ineffective as glaring at Heolstor. Araedhelm had to admit the moderation was necessary. He needed information on the antidote first. Then he would kill him.

"If I were you, Lieutenant, I wouldn't be wasting my time here with me. I'd think you'd want to be with your Captain during his last moments."

Araedhelm whirled on Heolstor, gripping him by the shirt-front and half hauling him out of the chair he was seated upon. "Do you have death-wish?" he growled.

There was an ironic sparkle in Heolstor's eyes that completely eluded Araedhelm. "Just a suggestion. If you find my company preferable…"

Araedhelm gripped the shirt harder. "Tell me what is in the antidote. _Now_."

"You really should work on your threatening manner. You're quite predictable, which rather ruins the effect."

"At this moment, believe me, you do _not_ want to push me."

Heolstor smiled condescendingly. "There, you see? Classic response. Try something a little more original if you're hoping to impress me."

Araedhelm hauled him completely out of the chair. "If you want something original, I can show you—"

Anborn, the voice of reason, spoke up, "Araedhelm, punch him a few times if you must. I can't deny I'm tempted myself. But don't you dare kill him yet."

Heolstor was dropped back to his seat with a thud. But Araedhelm was far from convinced as he turned on Anborn. "I agree he can't be killed yet, but if he won't talk, then I think it's time we _made_ him."

"Araedhelm…" Anborn's sigh was long-suffering and patient to a fault. "Before you begin tearing him limb from limb, I think we should try a little less bloody approach."

"You mean _negotiate_." Araedhelm spat the word out with disgust. "Negotiate with _him_? The King gave us full permission to question him, and I intend—"

"Correction, Lieutenant, he gave _me_ full permission to question this man, and you permission to _assist_ me. I am as determined as you are to get the information we need from him. Now if you'll just _calm_ _down_…"

"Have we decided who's in charge yet, and what we're going to do with me?" Heolstor inquired placidly, with just a hint of a smirk. "While you're sitting here chatting, Captain Thorongil could very well be—"

This time Araedhelm did punch him, a strong blow across the jaw that snapped his head to the side, as well as wiping the smirk off his face. "I'm tired of your games, and I won't play them with Thorongil's life at stake," he growled. "You're finished, Heolstor. Your perfect plan wasn't so perfect—even your second-in-command could see that."

Heolstor's impeccable mask slipped for a moment to reveal a flash of pain at the statement. Although he still spoke flippantly, there was a different quality to his words now. "Yes, I have failed, from an inexcusable lack of foresight. I should have seen that Mehdal was weak. As for now… I don't doubt the boundless mercy you would show me should I decide to have change of heart—maybe a swift execution by decapitation? But I _have_ failed, and I won't betray _myself _for a little of your altruistic _pity_. It's not mercy I want, it's revenge." He smiled that mocking smile so habitual to him, and then his eyes rolled back in his head as he went completely limp, sliding forward out of his chair.

All Araedhelm could do was stare in shock at the crumpled form of the man he'd been yelling at but a moment ago. Of all the things he'd expected…

Anborn recovered more quickly, crouching next to Heolstor's body, turning him over and checking for a pulse. He shook his head in confusion. "He's _dead_."

The horror of what that meant for Thorongil sent Araedhelm to his knees as well, desperately feeling for a pulse himself. He couldn't find one. Heolstor wasn't breathing. "I don't understand. How…?"

Anborn was equally perplexed. He began examining Heolstor for signs of injury. There was scratch along one shoulder, presumably from his fight with Araedhelm, or possibly Thorongil, but nothing else. No gaping wounds. Nothing. Except… He peered closer at the odd, swollen, and freshly-bleeding scratch across the back of Heolstor's left hand.

Araedhelm noted his concentration on Heolstor's hand and looked closer as well. "What is it?"

Anborn severed Heolstor's bonds with his dagger and, careful not to touch the ring on it, held up Heolstor's right hand. "Have a look at this."

It was an ornate ring, with a large green gem as its center-piece. Only now, the gem was pivoted to one side to reveal a small concealed compartment beneath—and a small, needle-like piece of mettle pointing upward out of it.

"Oh Gods…" Araedhelm stared at it for a moment, then looked away. "It's poisoned, isn't it?"

Anborn released Heolstor's arm and sat back on his haunches. "Well, I'm not going to try it out myself, but it would appear so. Neylor could probably tell us what kind."

Araedhelm shot to his feet. "I don't care what kind of poison that snake poisoned _himself_ with, I want to know how to undo what he's done to _Thorongil_."

"I know, Araedhelm, I know…"

"He's not going to get away with this. He's not going to have his revenge." Araedhelm shook his head slowly, looking and sounding like he was trying to convince himself. "He's not going to win." With a last glare at Heolstor's body, Araedhelm strode from the room.

* * *

**To be continued...**

I won't be putting "TBC" on this one for much longer--eep:-( But pleasepleaseplease let me know what you think of this chapter! -is obviously not above begging- -g- Thank you, all, for the wonderful feedback you've left!


	38. Sowing and Reaping

**A/N: Well, this time I actually have something to offer as an apology for being late… There's only one chapter after this, and, if my poor over-worked beta can find the time I'll try and get it posted early next this next week. Then there'll be just the epilogue left! **

**Cami really helped me do some serious revision on this chapter--and I am extremely grateful to her. I know it wasn't your ideal way to spend a Saturday afternoon, muinthel. -hugs- (Hehe, and thanks for soothing me through the near heart-attack I had when I couldn't find the last chapter, and thought I'd forgotten to write it... -HUGE sigh of relief-)**

* * *

**Chapter 38: Sowing and Reaping**

The sun was sending down brilliant rays of yellow, bathing the room in iridescent beauty. Araedhelm hated it. It should be raining. Storming. Pouring. Thundering. Or, at the very least, dark and dismal. Sunshine on a day like today seemed like some blatant act of defiance from nature. It made you want to smile, even though there was everything on earth to frown, and rage, and rail against.

"Lieutenant, you don't need to remain here. You should be resting."

Araedhelm looked up at Neylor in surprise. It was an unusually kind-sounding admonishment for the healer to make.

The old man bent back over the book in front of him, adding in a mutter, "You sitting around here scowling certainly isn't going to help anyone, least of all Captain Thorongil."

From where he sat near the window, Araedhelm muttered back, "Aye, and _you're_ one to cheer up a sick-room."

"_I_ am looking for a cure. _You_ are cluttering up the room."

Araedhelm watched Neylor remove another book from the large stack on the desk in front of him. Mehdal had brought the healer every book and scrap of paper of Heolstor's that he could find. It was a slow process sorting through it all, but Neylor had had little luck trying to figure out by scent and sight alone what the antidote was composed of, and what tests he had performed had been of only a little help. Unfortunately, Heolstor's strategies and general life-style might have been organized, but it appeared his organization of the records he'd kept was a little more spontaneous than stringent. At least his records appeared complete.

Araedhelm sighed. Maybe a little _too_ complete. Neylor had been at this for hours, and he hadn't mentioned anything so far about getting close, or even finding anything to do at all with the poison. "I don't suppose you could hurry."

Neylor just gave him a look. _The_ look.

"Of course not. Stupid of me to ask."

"If you wish to try your hand at this, you are more than welcome to. I am taking my time only because I would rather not _miss_ something."

Despite the way he was growling back in kind, all but looking for a fight, Araedhelm knew Neylor was actually being more patient with him than he probably deserved. Allowing him to stay, and not exploding at him every time he twitched the wrong way, was actually being incredibly lenient by the healer's standards. Not that there wasn't a good reason for it. At the moment, it was the cumulative effects of exhaustion and injury keeping Thorongil unconscious, more than the poison's effects. For all his serious condition, what they knew of the poison led Neylor to believe that Thorongil would yet have periods of not only wakefulness, but lucidity. When those times came, a friend's presence to explain what had happened—and was happening—might do much to both calm him and bolster his resolve to fight until an antidote could be discovered. Not that that realization kept Neylor from griping and threatening to toss him out on his ear. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

"Just…find it. Soon." He glanced over at the bed, where Thorongil lay, as still and pale as he had ever since they'd brought him in.

"I'm working on it," Neylor said evenly. "Since you're so set on staying here, I think I'll step out for a moment to check on some of my other patients and get one of my own books for reference." He knew he didn't have to add, "Keep an eye on him."

Araedhelm moved closer to the bed. He felt so useless now that the battle was over. Other healers from around the city had been called upon to help Neylor with the wounded, and everywhere everyone was bustling and hurrying. Araedhelm had done what he could to help, moving the injured to where they could receive attention, cleaning up the post-battle disorder that was everywhere. But in the end, all he could do was sit here and watch Neylor try to unravel the problem most constantly on his mind.

"Captain, please, stay with us until we can figure this out. Don't go and die on me."

"Trying, Lieutenant." Thorongil shifted slightly and winced, sucking in a quick breath. "Be easier if you and Neylor would quit arguing like five-year-olds."

Araedhelm jolted at the unanticipated response. Raspy though it was, he couldn't have been happier to hear Thorongil's voice. "You were going to just lie there and let me worry to death?" His beaming smile belied the reprimand. "How long have you been awake?"

"Not long. Been drifting…in and out."

"Wait a moment. Did you just say 'arguing like five-year-olds'?"

"Five-year-olds in need of a nap. Or maybe some serious discipline."

"If Neylor heard you say that—"

"—he wouldn't dare hurt me. I'm the patient." Thorongil's smile was somewhat lopsided, and his voice slightly slurred. But at least he was alert, and didn't seem to be having too much trouble talking, so long as he kept his breaths on the shallow side. "Now, would you mind filling me in on what happened after I so inopportunely…lost consciousness?" Thorongil grimaced. "Actually, it might be a good idea if you started a little before that. Things are rather blurry."

"Captain, are you sure you're feeling all right? You 'lost consciousness' for a very legitimate reason."

"I feel terrible," Thorongil admitted, for one of the rare times in his life. Now was hardly the time to try to convince Araedhelm otherwise. "But I'd like to die knowing what's happening around me."

"Captain, don't talk like—"

"Please, Araedhelm. Just fill me in, and I promise to quit being so morbid. Tell me, how did you manage to arrive so opportunely?"

Araedhelm sighed, but answered, "It didn't take long to make a sweep of the city. Most of the guards were becoming lax with over-confidence, and it wasn't hard. Aeron and I brought our men back as soon as we'd accomplished our task, and Ecthelion told me you'd gone to find the King and Queen, so I thought I'd join you. Turned out to be a good idea."

Thorongil smiled wryly in agreement. His gaze drifted past Araedhelm to settle on something, propped against the wall near the bed, and his eyes widened slightly in surprise as they fully focused on the object. "My sword… Araedhelm, how did you find it?"

Araedhelm's expression turned to a scowl. "Took it off one of the men I killed during the fight."

"Rador? He was quite proud of managing to get it for himself. I believe there was some violence involved in deciding who could claim it. Apparently Heolstor already had a _better_ one of his own. So he's dead, then?"

"Rador…" Araedhelm looked startled. "That's who it was? I thought he looked familiar, but I didn't know… Rador, the man who was _questioning _you while Heolstor had you in the dungeon?"

It took Thorongil a moment to follow the reference—his own more recent memories of Rador being the more vivid at the moment. "Yes… _That_ Rador. Also the guard I had the 'encounter' with in Heolstor's camp."

"_He_ did that to you?" Araedhelm was back to being furious and vengeful, looking ready to burst with fury at Rador, and himself, and the world in general for cheating him out of some just and satisfying revenge. "He did all that to you, and I let him die with a simple stabbing? By all the gods, if I'd known then—"

Thorongil suppressed a sigh, intervening before Araedhelm could get even more worked up. It would prove hard to explain if his Lieutenant stormed out of here with the sudden urge to go out and mutilate the dead bodies of a couple of their fallen foes. Not that he thought Araedhelm would actually _do _that… he hoped. "Araedhelm, he's dead, and justly so. Leave it at that."

"His death I can almost accept. But…"

"But _what_?" Thorongil hated it when Araedhelm got that edgy look.

"But Heolstor's dead as well."

"What? My memory is a bit hazy, but I do clearly remember him being captured and very much _alive_ before I went unconscious."

"He…was. But it seems Heolstor, as always, was just a step ahead of us. He had a poisoned ring he used on himself."

Thorongil closed his eyes wearily. "And I suppose he couldn't be persuaded beforehand to have a change of heart, and tell all?"

"No, Captain," Araedhelm responded, sounding unusually subdued and defeated. "He did it just to spite you—to take you down with him if he couldn't win."

Thorongil reopened his eyes to regard the ceiling thoughtfully. "No...I don't think so. That may have been part of it, but I think Heolstor was more cowardly than you realize. I think he killed himself, rather than face the humiliation of defeat. I think he couldn't stand losing. He wanted to die in control, even if it meant killing himself."

"Some way to show control."

"Such a waste of a brilliant mind." Thorongil shook his head.

"Don't you dare feel sorry for him. As a matter of fact, don't waste any more energy _thinking_ about him. We've still got find what the antidote is made of, and you've got to last until we can."

"Just wake me up when you're ready for me."

"Captain, I'm serious. You're going to stay with us, right?"

"Right. But do me one favor, would you?"

"Anything." On second thought, Araedhelm modified, "Within reason."

"I don't really know what this is going to do to me. If the poison makes me…say things…"

"I'll be right here, Captain. I promise. I know how to keep things to myself—and make sure your insane ravings don't get passed on to the wrong ears." Araedhelm's attempt at humor faded along with his half-hearted smirk. "I'll see to it anything you say stays in this room."

**---o—oOo—o--- **

The cumulative effects of sleep deprivation were gnawing at the edges of Ecthelion's brain, making him feel irritable and irresponsible. Amazing how lack of sleep could turn you into a grouchy and immature version of yourself—literally—overnight. But there was one last thing he had to see to before he capitulated to the demands of his body. This man had risked his life to make this mission a successful one. He owed him a short visit, at least. The healers said Ceryn was improving, able to stay awake for longer stretches now, though still very weak.

He approached the bed in the dimly-lit room as quietly as he could, in case Ceryn was sleeping.

"You look worse than I feel," Ceryn, who was quite awake, rasped, turning his head on the pillow to face Ecthelion. He didn't appear to be in too much pain at the moment—no longer being moved and access to better pain-killing medicines clearly having improved matters on that score.

Ecthelion smiled warmly. "I—we all are—indebted to you, even if the fact is not general knowledge. I wanted to see that you were alright. Or at least as 'alright' as can be expected for having been stabbed."

"Of the two of us, you look the more in need of a healer. You must be tired, my Lord. You shouldn't have come—but, thank you for your concern."

"Please, stop thanking me long enough to tell me of a way in which I might thank _you_. You mentioned a brother?"

Ceryn instantly came to attention, a panicked expression lighting his pale features. "Yes, my brother—" His breathing increased, and he winced, but didn't stop speaking, "Please, I don't know if he survived in the battle. If you could find out and try to—"

"Slow down, and _lie_ down," Ecthelion instructed kindly, laying a hand firmly on his shoulder to press him back down fully onto the bed, and continuing with gentle humor, "I don't want the healers after my blood for exciting you to rip your stitches out. I am more than willing to try to find out what I can about your brother, and do for him what I can, but I will need a _name_ if I am to attempt to do so."

"Of course…" Ceryn relaxed, pausing a moment to catch his breath and allow the pain to die down, but his face was still taut with unabated fear. "As I told you, he was Heolstor's right-hand man. Mehdal. He's so stubborn, I think he would fight to the end. But if you could just find out for certain…one way or the other."

Even bone-deep tiredness could not eclipse the ironic smile that spread across Ecthelion's face, as he put two and two together, and realized he already _knew_ one way or the other. "Mehdal, you say? Well them, I can tell you here and now, your brother is alive and uninjured."

"H-how can you know, for certain? You've seen him?" Ceryn's worry shifted to anxiety of another kind. "I know he's a traitor, but he's also a good man. Please give him a second chance. He doesn't deserve to die, you have to believe me."

"Oh, I do. And I think Thengel-King will be inclined to as well. The only one, right now, who seems to think he deserves otherwise is _Mehdal_. But with your help, perhaps he will be convinced as well."

"I don't understand…"

"We owe you more than you even know. Your betrayal and subsequent 'death' proved the catalyst in for more than one thing. Mehdal has already proven himself to be a good man worthy of a second chance."

"You mean—he betrayed Heolstor as well?" Ceryn asked with wonder. "I never thought… I mean, he's always been so set in his ways…"

"He was never so set in his ways that he wouldn't leave them in favor of his brother. Or, such I have been told was his reason for helping my men and me get inside Edoras. Heolstor told him you'd betrayed him, and had died doing so. After your supposed death, I can only imagine he had cause to re-evaluate his reasons for fighting for Heolstor."

"He actually betrayed Heolstor because he thought I was dead?" It was obviously a revelation to Ceryn, an idea he'd never contemplated. After mulling it over for a moment, mixed emotions of disbelief and joy crossing fleetingly across his face, another thought caused him to start to raise himself up in alarm, moaning and gritting his teeth, but still persistent. "But he thinks I'm _dead_ then. I have to see him. Please."

"My thoughts exactly." Ecthelion pressed him down again with a shake of his head. "But for the Valar's sake, stay here and stay down. As the uninjured party, I think he'll be the one doing the _coming_." Ecthelion went to the door and summoned one of the guards, telling them to find Mehdal and bring him. The healers might object to all the excitement when they found out, but he could see that fear and worry for his brother would not let Ceryn relax until he'd seen him. "It shouldn't take long," he assured Ceryn. "He's bound to be pacing his room just waiting for a guard to come get him and install him in a cell, or bring him to the gallows."

Ceryn was horrified. "He _wants_ to die?"

"I think, right now, he doesn't know what he wants. Guilt of the kind he is carrying around can do things to a man. But I think seeing you may make all the difference. Knowing you're alive, for a start, will probably help."

"Thank you, my Lord."

Ecthelion left, more than satisfied with the night's achievements, and compensated for his time. Not to mention ready for at least a solid eight hours of sleep. And when he woke up, and was finally clear-headed, he knew he was going to have to have a long talk with Thengel, to assure both of them that their relationship was once more as it should be.

**---o—oOo—o---**

Mehdal didn't know where the guards were taking him, and quite frankly he didn't care. If he were completely honest with himself—which he was—he'd been rather hoping to die in the battle.

What did he really have to look forward to on this side of "victory"? Because of him, what he had left of a real family was dead, and he'd betrayed Heolstor, who'd been the closest thing he'd ever had to an adoptive family. Heolstor was dead now, as well. Of course, now that he'd seen his true mettle, he realized Heolstor had probably never cared in the least about him, or whether he died or lived. Heolstor would probably have been as quick to shrug off his death as he had been with Ceryn's. In other words, he'd been more gullible than Ceryn had ever been. _He_ had been the deluded one all along—practically all his life. And wasn't that a cheerful thought? The kind that really made you want to hold on to life.

He realized, again without much caring, that the guard wasn't leading him toward the dungeons as he'd been expecting. Too bad. A cell would have suited his morose thoughts much better. Another interesting observation: they'd only sent one guard. But that wasn't really so very surprising, considering he'd given his solemn word he wouldn't try to escape or plead his way out of whatever justice Thengel saw fit to mete out. Apparently they trusted his word that much.

The guard didn't seem hostile or aloof, so Mehdal did eventually ask out of curiosity, "May I ask where I'm being taken?"

"The Steward asked that I bring you. He didn't say why."

The Steward? Ecthelion had asked for him to be brought? That was interesting. Perhaps he was being taken to an impromptu trial of some sort. Ecthelion could be helping Thengel with his doubtless abundant workload. It still seemed rather strange, but…why not? He wasn't feeling in the mood to be demanding.

From what he knew, Ecthelion was just as honorable a man as Thengel. He'd probably be just as adamant that he try to defend himself with weak pleas about being a "changed man", and only needing a "second chance." Oh yes, he felt like a changed man alright, but not the kind that wanted a second start at life. Unless, perhaps, that new start included Ceryn being miraculously raised from the dead.

He had to smile wryly at thought of what his younger brother's reaction to his attitude might have been. He probably would have started by looking at him in disbelief, with that wide-eyed expression of sadness, tinged with disappointment and reproach that he knew all too well Mehdal couldn't resist for long. That failing, he would have started in with something like, "Mehdal, stop being an idiot. Right now. Why would you want to die?" That was Ceryn, always with a bright outlook on life, no matter how hopeless it might be in actuality. Why had it come as so much of a surprise to him that he'd chosen to die like he had, fighting for an ideal? Of course Ceryn would go down fighting for what he thought was right. It was only too bad he hadn't shared a little of his wisdom with his big brother _before_ he'd died. Things might have been different then. _Aye, like I might have told him not to be a fool, and forced him to change his mind. _

"Here's the room."

Mehdal was jolted back to the present. The guard was indicating the door before them. "I am supposed to just…go in?"

"I believe so."

He turned the knob. And heard a voice he never thought he'd hear again.

"Mehdal—is that you?"

He couldn't say anything. Just stared, and stared some more, at the pale but unmistakable face bathed in candle-light.

"Mehdal, would you quit gaping and come over here?"

"Ceryn…you're…"

"Yes, I'm me. Really. I promise. Now could please come over here? I'd go over there, but…"

That brought Mehdal into motion, moving quickly to the side of the bed and kneeling on the floor. Ceryn reached out and grasped his shoulders, pulling him in for a weak and careful but warm embrace. Mehdal returned it, pulling back reluctantly. "Ceryn, I thought you were dead."

"I did too." Ceryn gave a short laugh, then winced at the motion. "I mean, I thought _you_ were dead. Although, actually, I did think that _I_ was for a while, too…"

"How? Heolstor said you died in an attempt to warn Ecthelion. He said—"

"And you believed him?" Ceryn snorted derisively.

"What really happened?"

"I did warn Ecthelion. But those stupid birds saw me. I didn't realize that until… Well, just when I thought I was getting away with it, they gave me away, and…"

"And what?"

"And the rest... Well, I'm here now, aren't I?" Ceryn played with the edge of one the blankets.

"I start questioning every soldier who was there for the details if I have to. And I will if you don't tell me."

"As soon as Heolstor found out, he stabbed me. When I woke up, I was somewhere in the woods. It's a good thing Ecthelion came when he did, or else…" Ceryn stopped himself, looking uneasily at the suddenly steely look on his brother's face. "Mehdal, Heolstor's dead."

Mehdal looked on the verge of some major cursing, his mouth half forming words a couple of times as his face grew steadily darker. "That… I can't believe I was so…" Finally, he settled on a nearly complete sentence. "If I could just get my hands on him now…"

Ceryn tried to hide a smile, ducking his head quickly. "You can't make him _more_ dead."

Mehdal stopped trying to think of fit curses for Heolstor, to study his brother's face. "Gods, I almost lost you, little brother. I thought I had."

Ceryn was also looking thoughtfully at his brother's face. Mehdal looked pale, as if he hadn't been eating or drinking enough—and if the dark smudges beneath his eyes were any indication, not sleeping half enough either. There was a haunted expression in his eyes that, although fading, had yet to go away. "I think I almost lost you, too."

"I'm sorry."

"Just take that second chance everyone wants to give you. Please?"

"I think I just might, little brother."

**---o—oOo—o---**

The sunlight and beautiful weather outside only heightened the paradox of emotions Morwen was feeling that morning. Sorrow over Thorongil's condition, and joy and anticipation as she waited to see her son after too many days of fearful separation. They had been forced to wait until they were sure that Edoras was safe enough that he wouldn't become the target of someone's last-minute desperation, before bringing him from his safe hiding place. He'd already been placed in danger and made into a bargaining piece far too many times. But now, at last, with all of Heolstor's men subdued and Heolstor himself dead and beyond plotting…

The bright sound of a child's voice—ever the prelude to Théoden's imminent arrival—was the only forewarning she received before a beaming face appeared in the door. With a laughing and unintelligible noise of happiness, Théoden barreled into her arms. She just simply held him for a long moment, feeling for herself that he really was there, and unhurt, and still vibrating with all the boyish energy he'd ever possessed. She gathered enough presence of mind to smile her gratitude to Cwén, who was standing just outside the door and disappeared soon afterwards with a knowing smile.

"What about me—don't I get one of those?" Thengel queried, in a put-upon tone of hurt.

Théoden didn't quite let go of his mother but, turning to his father, wrapped his small arms as far around both of them as his limited reach allowed, and smiled as he was enveloped in a double-hug, sandwiched comfortably between his parents.

"We were so afraid for you, Théo."

Even though Morwen was running her fingers through his hair repeatedly as if he was some baby, and using that decidedly un-adult shortened version of his name, Théoden didn't make a fuss like he normally might have.

Morwen squeezed him a little tighter, and repeated tenderly, "I was so afraid for you. But you're safe now." It was more as if she was whispering the words to herself. "You _are_ safe now, Théo."

Théoden opened his mouth to protest—if he didn't say something she was going to think he liked being called that—but he found that no protests would come. He certainly didn't _like_ it, though. Well, maybe he liked being held like this, but that was something even adults did sometimes. Besides, his mother seemed to be assuring herself as much as him with that embarrassing nick-name, and those softly-spoken words. He _really_ didn't need the assurance, he knew he was safe after all, but it seemed to give her comfort. And it wasn't like he _didn't_ like the attention…that much.

Since his father seemed to be in a similar mood, Théoden also decided not to resist when he scooped him up in his capable and strong arms, hoisting him aloft fast enough to persuade a spontaneous laugh out of him. He clasped his arms around his father's neck and laid his head on his shoulder, something about the comforting warmth and security of being held and just _loved_ after everything that he'd been through compelling him to not fight it. No matter how childish it might be, it felt right.

Something inside him also compelled him to whisper in his father's ear: "I was scared, too." The only reply was an even tighter squeeze, but that was enough. As the sense of well-being seeped into him, making him feel warm inside and out, a spike of concern entered his sphere of comfort as a thought struck him. "Where's Thorongil?" He didn't like the weighted silence that followed. When adults hesitated like that, it usually meant there was news they were debating telling him. In other words, bad news they'd rather not tell a _child_. It made him fear the worst. "H-he died? In the fight?"

"Oh no, no," Morwen was swift to deny it, touching his arm gently. "He's not dead."

That wasn't much better either, since neither of them seemed in any hurry to say what he _was_ if he wasn't dead. For it was quite obvious from their expressions that something was wrong, and that something had something to do with Thorongil. When elaboration wasn't immediately forthcoming, he had to but think for a moment before he came up with his own explanation. "He's dying. He said he was poisoned. It's going to kill him, isn't it?"

Morwen looked ready to shake her head vehemently in denial, but stopped.

"It is, isn't it?" Théoden pressed.

Morwen bit hir lip and placed hand on the top of his head. "I…don't know. No one knows for sure right now, Théoden. Neylor is doing all he can to find the antidote."

"Why can't you make the man who poisoned him tell you? You caught him, didn't you?"

"Théoden, it's not that easy…"

Thengel took over for his wife. As little as either of them liked talking about it, much less explaining everything to Théoden, he knew his son could handle more than they were willing to admit. And if they didn't tell him, he'd probably find out one way or another. "The man who poisoned Thorongil—Heolstor—he died." No need to elaborate on that particular point. "So, we can't ask him." Or _make_ him… Thengel had to confess, he was beginning to wish he'd listened to Araedhelm's advice and let him do some serious "convincing" straight off.

"Then how can Neylor fix the poison?" Théoden asked, panic bubbling up in his chest.

"Neylor is looking through Heolstor's books and papers, trying to find something he might have written about what the antidote is made of."

"But—"

Morwen spoke again, "Théoden, Neylor is working very, very hard to find a way to heal Thorongil. If there's a way, he'll find it."

Théoden nodded, but wondered fearfully if there _was_ a way to be found. "Can I go see him?"

Thengel smiled. "That, I think, can be done."

* * *

**TBC... **

**Okay, I'll try to have the next chapter up EARLY. Cami says she thinks she might even have the time to edit it tomorrow afternoon. ;-)**


	39. Holding Back the Tide

**A/N: I'm early! Yay! Go me! Actually, go Cami. :o)**

**And now, for our conclusion...**

* * *

**Chapter 39: Holding Back the Tide **

Time, and how much if it they had left. That was what it all came down to. Even with little medical knowledge, it was easy for Araedhelm, and everyone else who visited, to see that Thorongil was growing worse by the hour.

Worse by the minute.

Araedhelm had to tear his eyes away every now and then, or break down completely. Thorongil's once sun-weathered complexion had gone from pale to ashen. Every ten minutes or so, the lieutenant leaned forward to check for a pulse. It might have been his imagination, but it seemed to him Thorongil's lips were taking on a slight blue tint as his breathing became more shallow. Sometimes, Araedhelm thought he saw his eyelids flutter, but it had been a long time since he'd last regained consciousness.

Visitors had come in and out. Théoden had stayed for a long time, sitting quietly next to the bed, sharing Araedhelm's sorrow in uncharacteristic silence. His parents had finally convinced him to leave for a while, promising him they could return again soon.

Araedhelm sat forward in his chair, leaning his elbows on the edge of the bed to rest his forehead against his palms. Maybe it was just him getting old, but Thorongil was far too young to die. He'd thought it many times before when they'd been engaged in battles together. Thorongil had a sense of purpose about him that had always marked him as different—as having a destiny he could only guess about.

There were so many things about Thorongil that had made him feel instinctively protective. Not least of which, the fact that the man attracted more catastrophes than anyone else he'd ever known—and didn't seem to have the self-preservation instincts a gnat was born with. Oh, he could fight. He hadn't been placed in charge of such a large section of Rohan's army through popularity alone, though that had played a role. Thorongil could more than defend himself. Then _why_ was he always ending up in this condition? His family must have had full-time job of it keeping him alive through childhood. And he'd felt, very deeply, that that responsibility had been passed on to him, however unofficially. It had felt so natural and automatic. And now he felt, just as deeply, that he'd failed in the worst way.

Death in battle was bad enough, but it was something a soldier was prepared for, something he knew Thorongil had always been prepared for. However, watching his friend die a slow death by poison was something he'd never thought he'd have to prepare himself for. It _wasn't_ something he was prepared for.

"Araedhelm…"

Araedhelm sat up. He had a ubiquitous "How are you feeling?" on the tip of his tongue, but looking at the gaunt face before him it felt like a rediculous thing to ask. It had been a rediculous thing to ask the last ten times he'd asked, but what else did you ask a dying friend? Feeling _better_? I hope the pain's not too excruciating? However stupid asking Thorongil how he felt might be, it was a good opening line to start out with. Besides, Thorongil never answered the question truthfully. It was more like the sick-room version of "Hello," a death-bed salutation, hardly looked upon as an actual _question_. So, when Thorongil didn't say anything more after a minute, Araedhelm gave up and asked, "How are you feeling?"

"Awful. Just kill me now."

Well, he'd rarely answered truthfully _before_. Apparently he was feeling a little more honest today.

"Araedhelm, I think I'm going to—"

Araedhelm interpreted the frantic gesture Thorongil made, as well as the look of nausea, and grabbed for the basin on bedside table. Thorongil had already had several bouts of sickness, and he didn't have much left to throw up, but the dry heaves continued for an alarmingly long time. So long, Araedhelm was contemplating bellowing for Neylor, who had once again left the room in quest of some book for his research. So far, Neylor had simply instructed him to stay with Thorongil and do all he could to make him comfortable. That had sounded too much like some last mercy for a dying man in Araedhelm's opinion, but at least Thorongil _had_ seemed comfortable enough.

At last, Thorongil collapsed back onto the pillow behind him, breathing shakily. Araedhelm helped him take a small drink of water to wash out the taste. "Feeling better?" Araedhelm winced the moment the words left his mouth. Stupid, stupid, stupid… That was one the questions he'd categorized as definitely too idiotic to ask.

"No." Thorongil didn't sound so much grouchy as mystified. "That can't be good," he groaned.

"What? What is it?"

"'S not fair…" Thorongil's voice slurred, his eyes beginning to droop once more. "You're s'posed to feel better after you throw up…"

"Captain, hang on, I'm going to go call Neylor."

"No, wait." Thorongil's clarity of thought, if not voice, seemed to still be intact. "Wait."

"What? Why?"

"I think it's gong to get worse."

Maybe not as intact as he'd thought. "Captain, that's _why_ I'm going to get Neylor."

"No, wait, Araedhelm." Thorongil drew in a fortifying breath. "It feels like last time… Last time when Heolstor…"

"Like the last time, when you were at the camp?" Araedhelm guessed.

Thorongil nodded. "Only worse. I didn't feel strong then, and I feel even less so now. Neylor's doing all that can be done, and I'd rather not have any more witnesses than are necessary if I…you know."

Begrudgingly, and not entirely convinced, Araedhelm resumed his seat. Thorongil continued his labored breathing with single-minded devotion. Just when Araedhelm thought the worst was momentarily over, Thorongil's face tensed in pain and his fists clenched.

"Not again…"

"Captain?"

Thorongil looked like he might be sick again. He swallowed, one fist gripping the edge of the bed convulsively. Glazed silver eyes met his for a moment, and he whispered, "Don't call Neylor, it won't be this bad for long…I hope." And then he rolled on his side, curling in on himself, as the spasms began to hit him in waves.

Araedhelm stood again—sitting only made him feel somehow even more useless—and watched helplessly.

Thorongil still apparently clung to a remnant of consciousness, as he ground out in a momentary lull in the muscle cramps, "Just sit down, Araedhelm…and don't let me say anything too stupid. Just…" He gave a muffled cry of pain, turning his head into the pillow as if doing so might somehow ward off the pain.

Araedhelm sat down mechanically, but after that instinct took over. He wasn't a healer. He'd never been good at comforting people, or at being what Cwén smilingly called "sensitive" by nature, but he could be a friend. He hoped.

He reached out and gripped one of the spasmodically clenching and unclenching fists with both hands. Thorongil's fingers instantly gripped back. Each time a spasm hit, the hold tightened painfully, but it made Araedhelm feel connected, if only a little. Hopefully, it would remind Thorongil that he was there. _Even if you're completely useless, and doing nothing to help._

By the time Thorongil was reduced to minor tremors, Araedhelm had given up fighting his composure. He scrubbed a hand over his now-damp face, and the several days' growth or beard there. Gods above, to think of Thorongil in this condition, with only Heolstor and a mob of Dunlendings for company. After Neylor found that antidote, he was going to use his fists to make a good-sized dent in a wall. Or two.

Thorongil moaned a couple of times, uncurling slightly. His eyes fluttered back open, but they were far from cognizant. Wearing the glassy look he was, he looked frighteningly similar to some of the open-eyed corpses that still haunted Araedhelm's dreams, from battle fields long ago. But corpses didn't shudder or breathe, and Thorongil was doing both, if weakly.

Thorongil was still for a while, and Araedhelm began to relax. A premature assumption to make. He should have known better, considering the predominant effect Thorongil had attributed to the poison.

It began with Thorongil murmuring something half way between a moan, and what that sounded like, "Eru Ilúvatar that hurts…"

At first, Araedhelm thought it might be the first signs of him coming back to full consciousness. He didn't ask this time how he was feeling, but he set a hand reassuringly on Thorongil's shoulder.

"'S just a broken bone, Ada."

"Thorongil…"

"Right…right. Two broken bones." Thorongil sighed, wincing, eyes closing briefly. "But it's just two."

"Um...Captain." Araedhelm knew enough to recognize the fact that Thorongil was delirious, and probably not comprehending what he said or who he was, but he didn't know what else to do but respond.

"Ada, it's not like I wanted to fall off my horse."

Alright. So Thorongil was most certainly not mentally in the here-and-now. Without thinking, Araedhelm found himself taking the place of this "Ada," whoever he was. "Of course not. Just, rest now."

"But…" Grey eyes, feverish and glassy, fluttered tiredly. "It's just broken ribs. Don't need to…_sleep_."

A smile found its way to Araedhelm's face. Thorongil always put up a fight about resting after receiving injury, but right now he was looking less like an irritable soldier, and more like an endearingly stubborn child arguing over bedtime. Of course, he also looked heartbreakingly vulnerable and ill. It sent a cold chill down Araedhelm's spine to think that, if he wanted, right now he could probably turn Thorongil's mind to whatever subject he wished and all but force information out of him.

"I think you should try and sleep a little." Maybe, if the poison was supposed to make a person susceptible to suggestion, Araedhelm could get him to sleep, or at least be relaxed, through this stage.

"Sleep?"

"Yes, just sleep for a while."

Araedhelm watched him close his eyes, willing them to remain that way, for his breathing to even out…

"Where are 'Dan and 'Ro?"

Araedhelm sighed in exasperation. This man was far too stubborn for his own good. "'Dan and…'Ro? They're… They went hunting." Hopefully "'Dan" and "'Ro" were people, not beloved childhood pets. Or maybe wolfhounds?

Thorongil seemed to accept the explanation. "When will they be back?" His voice kept slurring, and judging by the resumed tightness of his expression some of the pain was returning as well.

Araedhelm spoke quickly, wishing his friend would just quit talking and relax. "They'll be back soon. And I'm sure they wouldn't be happy to see you being such a difficult patient."

Thorongil gave a wan smile, so apparently it had been the right thing to say. "Hope they get back…very soon."

"Sleep now, and I'll wake you up when they return."

"Ada?"

"Yes?"

Thorongil held a hand protectively over his chest. He sounded confused, as if he might be coming partially out of the delirium. "Doesn't feel like broken ribs. Feels…worse. Hurts bad."

"I'm…sorry. Just sleep. Rest now. I'm sure you'll feel better in the morning."

"Try…"

Araedhelm sighed in relief as Thorongil's eyelids finally slid closed and stayed that way. Bema, was this really all the comfort he could offer him? Sleep, you'll feel better in the morning? Although Thorongil was mercifully unconscious now, he looked far from comfortable. All Araedhelm could do was wipe his face with a damp cloth and try to get some more water into him, as he tossed and turned restlessly, murmuring incoherent words that sounded, oddly enough, like some foreign language—possibly what he imagined the language of the elves might sound like.

But more alarming than any feverish ranting, was when he ceased to stir at all.

"Captain? _Captain_." Araedhelm was wondering now if it had been such a brilliant idea to encourage him to sleep. He stayed leaning forward against the bed, feeling the faint pulse beneath his finger-tips and listening to the shallow breathing of his captain. "Come on, come on… Just stay with me. I'm not giving up. Don't fail me and make me fail _you_. Come on, don't make me fail you, Captain…"

"I don't think you are, Lieutenant." Neylor appeared like an apparition next to the bed. "But let's hope _I'm_ not the one failing him."

Araedhelm's eyes darted from Neylor's grim face to the vial he held. "You found it—how to make antidote?"

Neylor raised an eyebrow and uncorked the vial. "Well it's not more poison."

Araedhelm took that as a polite "don't be an idiot" and scrambled to support Thorongil's head as Neylor tipped half the contents of the vial into his mouth. They stood silently for a few minutes, watching him, Araedhelm tense with anticipation and fear.

"I wouldn't hold my breath."

Araedhelm turned sharply on Neylor. "What, you don't expect it to _work_?"

"_Calm_ _down_." Neylor was obviously at the end of his rope, but still trying to cling on until the crisis was over. "Heolstor's notes did seem to indicate that the antidote was fast-acting but, as far gone as he was, it may take a little while for it to take effect."

"Oh. But, you do expect it to work?"

Neylor hesitated. Never a good sign. "I did the best that I could. Heolstor didn't leave a list of ingredients, so I had to sort through every note he'd made on the poison before I could even begin trying to make something to combat it. Eventually, I found mention of several specific herbs he used to make the antidote, as well as some of the herbs used in the poison, but there's no way of knowing if they are _all_ the ingredients. There could be missing papers, or he could have kept some secrets only in his head. I've added a few things that may be beneficial—and certainly won't harm—but I'm no expert on poison, and certainly not on this kind of poison."

Araedhelm's anger deflated completely. "Thank you. I know you've done everything you can."

They stood in silence for several minutes, Araedhelm resisting the urge to pace, Neylor staring intently at his patient, hardly blinking as he kept watch.

The wait stretched on, and Araedhelm began shifting from foot to foot, looking quickly away towards the window, and then looking just as quickly back, ready for the faintest sign of improvment.

Neylor spared the lieutenant a rare look of sympathy. "I don't know exactly how quickly it is supposed to work, and he had the poison in his system for quite some time before we were able to give him the antidote. It could take a while... Don't give up on him yet."

"Aye, don't give up on me yet." A quiet voice put in.

Even Neylor gave a rare broad smile as he turned to Thorongil, who was regarding them through half-open eyes. The healer's craggy face lit up with relief. "Well. It looks like I was wrong in _one_ of my calculations. That was a fast recovery, Captain."

Thorongil snorted weakly, shifting on the bed with a groan. "Who said anything about _recovery_?"

"True, true. I'm glad you recognize the fact." Neylor felt his forehead. "I should have said, that was a fast return to consciousness. You'll probably be weak for a very long time yet, and you'll certainly be taking doses of the antidote for quite a while, and I expect you to co-operate in the meantime."

"Captain, if you ever scare me like that again—"

"Threats, and more threats. That's all I get."

Thorongil was obviously in control of his faculties again, but he still looked dangerously frail, and on the verge of returning to unconsciousness. After the whirlwind of emotions he's been through, Araedhelm felt almost as drained Thorongil looked. "I really thought we were going to lose you. I swear, if you pull something like that again—"

Groaning, this time in obvious _emotional_ pain, Thorongil pleaded, "Please, don't say it. Every time I come back from a near-death experience someone just has to say that…"

"Maybe you should start listening." Neylor was returning to his normal, brisk self. "Now. I know you won't be persuaded to go get some sleep yet, Lieutenant, so I give you permission to spend ten minutes longer. Then I want you out. I will go start production on some more of the antidote, and inform their Majesties that we have been successful. And _you_, Captain, are going to do nothing but rest for a very, very long time."

"Wonderful." Thorongil sighed, but he didn't sound as sarcastic about it as he usually did.

Araedhelm smiled. "Don't worry, I'll be sure you have company."

The dark circles beneath Thorongil's eyes begged him to just give up and sleep, but he had one more question. "Araedhelm, did I…?"

"Make a fool of yourself?"

Thorongil winced. "Nicely put."

"No, not exactly."

"Not…exactly." Thorongil cracked an eye open. And sighed at the smug expression on Araedhelm's face. "I'm too tired to torture it out of you right now."

His thoughts taking a more serious turn, Araedhelm dropped the smug act, his smile fading into an expression of mingled compassion and concern. "Honestly, Captain, you have nothing to worry about. You said nothing you need regret or feel embarrassed by." Seeing lingering uncertainty in Thorongil's eyes, he added, "A few cryptic phrases that only served to leave me more curious about your past, without actually giving any information, and a lot of what sounded like a foreign language, that is all. And as I promised, you didn't have an audience besides myself or Neylor while your mind was confused. You can rest easy, my friend—anything you do not choose to reveal yourself is safe still."

"Thank you, Araedhelm," Thorongil replied softly. "I… It does set my mind at ease—more than I can tell you."

"You're welcome." Araedhelm met his eyes, smiling once more. After a moment, he dropped his gaze, shifting uneasily in his seat before clearing his throat and standing, breaking the serious moment. "You should be resting. Get some sleep, Captain. You have a lot of strength to regain, and I, for one, am eager to have you in your proper place again."

**---o—oOo—o---**

Soreness and extreme weakness, as predicted, were Thorongil's constant companions for a long time after his "cure." But Araedhelm was true to his word, and a day rarely passed that his sick-room didn't have visitors. Théoden came every day, brightening the room with his chatter. Neylor frowned upon it, but Thorongil was insistent he didn't mind it. It was enjoyable, actually.

Apart from it being cheerful to have Théoden to keep him company, it was also handy at times to have someone who had no trouble or reservations about keeping up a one-sided conversation. Some would, undoubtedly, call it annoying. One thing was certian, Théoden's fathomless ability to continue talking, combined with Thorongil's fathomless patience for listening to it, worked like a charm in warding off paranoid lieutenants. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate Araedhelm. Quite the contrary. But it was useful to have a means with which to—oh-so-subtly, and without him realizing it was a suggestion—remind Araedhelm that leaving the room to eat and sleep wasn't such a bad idea.

But he enjoyed Théoden's prattle for more than its temporary Araedhelm-dispersing abilities. The one-sidedness of many of their "conversations" allowed him, easily wearied as he still was, to drift in and out of rest without Théoden even noticing. And in addition, Théoden's willing presence and endless talk never left room for depression to stay for long, no matter how long he might be bedridden.

This particular morning, when Théoden came bounding in with his typical exuberance, there was something a little different about his excitement. There was more to his excitement than the normal enthusiasm over visiting him. There was also an edge of hesitancy, even reluctance. How Théoden could balance the two—uncertainly and enthusiasm—at the same time was mystery, but he came marching in as eagerly as ever, with a decidedly troubled expression clouding his face.

Théoden hopped up to perch on the edge of the bed at Thorongil's invitation, and smiled his greeting. But the troubled look remained, and no explanation was forthcoming. Thorongil contemplated which approach to take: tackle the subject head-on, or wait for Théoden to come out with it himself. He decided on the middle ground, letting Théoden ramble on unchecked for a few minutes, before approaching the as-yet-unknown subject.

"Théoden, is something wrong?"

Théoden's head jerked up, and he replied with all the feigned, but obviously contrived, oblivion a little boy could pretend to, "Why would there be?"

"You can't come in here looking so melancholy and not expect me to notice."

"I _wasn't_ looking melan… Like that," Théoden protested, tripping over the word ineffectively.

"Maybe not quite. But you weren't looking exactly happy either. Won't you tell me what it is?"

"It's just… Your birthday. I forgot, and swore I wasn't going to. But things were happening so fast—and you were gone—and then when you came back Heolstor caught us and took us to his camp. And…" Théoden sighed. "I didn't mean to forget, but now…now it's been a long time. And I tried, but I couldn't even think of something to get you."

Ah. The woes of childhood. Thorongil tried not to smile, since Théoden was obviously in earnest and truly distressed about it. "You know something?"

Théoden was focused intently on his feet, dangling over the side of the bed. "What?"

"I forgot about it too."

"You forgot your own birthday?"

"I did."

Théoden considered it. "I don't think I could forget mine."

"Yes…well. I've had a lot more birthdays than you have. I suppose they become less exciting over time."

That seemed to disturb Théoden further. "They do?"

"I wouldn't worry about it. By the time they become less exciting for you… Let's just say it'll be a while yet, I think. And when they cease to be exciting, well then, it won't matter so much will it?"

"I suppose not…"

"So, nothing to worry about."

"But I still am sorry I didn't find you a present."

"Don't you remember what I told you last time we had this conversation?"

"About…what presents adults like to get?"

Thorongil nodded. "I can't speak for all adults, but I know being able to be with people you love is the best present I could ask for. You've given me a wonderful present just by being here, Théoden." Before he knew what had hit him, he had two small but sturdy arms half strangling him in a fervent hug.

"I'm glad you didn't die, Thorongil. And I'm glad you're here."

Thorongil smiled, squeezing Théoden tightly. "I'm glad too, tithen-pen."

**

* * *

****The End**

**Well, officially, that's the end. There is an epilogue, though. I know there are some loose ends people might still want to see wrapped up, but some I left intentionally unsettled, because I have ideas for them (no promises, just ideas!), and I also wanted to leave space for a sequel, here, should one strike me. So I hope things are settled satisfactorily, but if you do notice things that aren't wrapped up or explained completely, it's not just because I'm being lazy or forgot them. ;-) Hopefully, I should have the "real" end up no later than this weekened. :o)**


	40. Epilogue

**A/N: With a mixture of sadness and relief, I present to you the final installment. :o)**

**A last and heartfelt thank-you to my beta Imbecamiel (Vulcan-like in her stability and logic), who has endured many an artistic mood-swing, and patiently edited this regardless. I can't believe how much you put up with from me, muinthel-nin, but I appreciate it. ;-)**

* * *

**Epilogue**

Time. So much time had passed since he'd seen his family, or Legolas. That was what Thorongil's mind returned to again and again during every quiet moment of late. He couldn't stop thinking about Rivendell, about Mirkwood, about the adventures—or more often _mis_adventures—he used to have with the twins and Legolas.

He'd never felt quite separated from them. All of them sent him letters frequently, and he was almost always in the middle of responding to one of them. In some ways, the more conscious effort of stopping and purposefully taking the time to "talk" to them seemed to bring him closer to them. But even talking to them intimately through letters sometimes made the ache of physical distance all the more acute.

He missed them. The familiarity of home, and family and dear friends, in whose presence there was no need to hide his true identity. He'd never stopped being himself, really, but there was always a slight lingering guilt, a sense of feeling deceptive and secretive about his past. It set him apart, made him feel always a little like an outsider, even when he was accepted as he was in Rohan. But he knew the partial secrecy was necessary, for now.

But that was one of the reasons he missed home so badly. They knew him there. Not as the possible future King of Gondor, or Strider, Ranger of the North, or Thorongil, Captain of Rohan. They knew him as Estel of Rivendell. Ion. Tithen-muindor. Mellon. And they accepted him just as he was. He yearned to be at that place in his life once more.

Wishful thinking, all of it. He'd truly established himself in Rohan by this time, and although thoughts of moving on were still persistent, there was something about being half-killed that soothed wanderlust, just a little. Once he'd made a full recovery—and Neylor let him leave his room—his mind might turn back to thoughts of moving on. For now, he was as content as he could be, barring a return to Rivendell. He needed to accomplish more, and see more of the world, before it was time for him to go back.

And right now what he needed to be doing was writing a letter back to Elrond—which brought him to a dilemma. How much he was going to say of this latest catastrophe he'd been entangled in? He had to take into account that his father was not only frighteningly perceptive, but also happened to be Lord of Rivendell _and_ a member of the White Council. One never could tell exactly how much he knew of the happenings in Middle Earth at large, or quite how he came to be aware of some of it, though there was no doubt his knowledge was considerable.

Thorongil ran a few sentences over in his mind, trying to think of a way to say he was alright, without implying that there was every reason for him _not_ to be. There was a small chance Elrond might not know, and it wouldn't do to give too much away and worry him unduly if that was the case. But of course Elrond might very likely find out about the goings-on in Rohan sometime in the future, in which case it wouldn't do either to be obviously concealing the fact in his letter. It was a situation he didn't see a winning solution to, but he had to say _something_. Maybe gloss over his health, and the recent news, and forge right on to the weather? He would have to be subtle.

_Adar,_

_I am sorry I could not write you sooner. There has been much to keep me occupied of late... _

**---o—oOo—o---**

_Rivendell, some time later_

A light breeze lifted the drapes at the open window, bringing in the light scent of greenness and spring. Elrond scoffed at the letter laying open on his desk. Who on Arda had ever taught his son subtlety? He'd thought he had, but apparently _no_ _one_ had.

_There has been much to keep me occupied of late... _

Even if rumors hadn't been spreading about all the strange things happening in Rohan, he would have gotten a hint there that something was out of the usual. Estel didn't usually make such inane comments, or if he did, he went on to elaborate. Unlike in this letter. It was a trait in all his sons: understatement like this invariably meant they'd either been involved in disaster of some kind, or were about to be.

…_but everything is well in Rohan now._

Ah, so at least it was trouble in the past-tense. In his mind's eye he could see the expression on Estel's face as he penned that. Sheepish. Cringing. Hoping his father wouldn't notice the way he was avoiding saying anything openly, and that he wouldn't read anything between the lines, or into the lines.

But that wasn't the worst. Later on, Eru help him, Estel gave himself away and scared his father half to death all with one ostensibly innocuous phrase. Apparently, it was supposed to be reassuring. First, he made vague statements about "being wounded", though he didn't mention how or how badly, and then oh-so-innocently added:

_I am doing well now._

Too many "now"s—they pointed glaringly to the fact that there had to have been a before where everything wasn't so "well." And here he thought he was going to have to analyze this letter to death in order to find out whether Estel had managed to be come embroiled in whatever it was that was going on.

_I am doing well now_. Elrond read it again and scowled. He read further on, but that was all on that topic. What kind of information was that to reassure a parent separated from a wounded son by hundreds of miles? He didn't even mention what kind of wound he was recovering _from_.

The rest of the letter was even more dissatisfactory, without so much as an allusion to anything of a serious nature. There was mention of the young prince, Théoden, and of the Queen's pregnancy, and even a few painstakingly accurate accounts of the minor details of his life in Rohan, while omitting the major ones. Classic evasive tactics. Estel should have known better than to try them on him. Elrond was sorely tempted to storm off to Rohan that very hour, if only to strangle Estel—after, of course, he made sure he was alright and embraced him.

Eru, he missed him.

Estel was grown man, but he would always be Elrond's youngest, and he couldn't help but perpetually think of his son's mortality and vulnerability to sicknesses as a human, among other things.

Contradictory emotions of frustration and fondness left him with an odd half-glare half-smile on his face as he finished reading the letter a second time through. Estel had wormed his way into his adoptive family's hearts as a child, and as an adult he continued to stay there. Even if he could be the most inconsiderate, stubborn, uncooperative, and obstinately uncommunicative man alive. Bewilderingly hazard-prone, with a penchant for coming home mud-caked and usually in need of medical attention—quirks and all, he was their Estel no matter how long he was gone.

Regardless, Elrond wished he wouldn't stay gone for so long. Never had years dragged along at such a slow rate. Every drop of human blood he possessed kept on insisting annually, or often more frequently, that a long time had passed. Admittedly, a great deal of his desire for Estel to return was selfish. However, apart from his more self-centered motives, Elrond was constantly thinking of what the years were doing to his youngest. If the months were dragging on _him_, making him feel old in an almost human sense, then how might Estel be changing in all this time?

_Oh, ion-nin, I hope you do not think there is a need to prove yourself before you return to your home. Rivendell will always have a place for you just as you are. _He wished he could send the thought telepathically—sincerity and all—straight into Estel's head, and make him believe it. He thought briefly of Arwen, and all the tangled emotions there, and would have added: _The years have changed many things, but nothing you do could make me stop loving you. _He hoped Estel knew that without him saying it, but sometimes that otherwise intelligent mind of his could convince him of the most idiotic ideas.

"Ada?"

Elrond was so deep in his thoughts about Estel that, when he heard his name spoken like that, he all but expected to turn around and find his human son standing there.

"Ada, are you alright?" Elrohir asked, eying him with concern.

Elrond frowned, reaching up to rub absently at his right temple. "Oh…Yes, yes, I'm fine. Why?"

"You weren't responding, and you look a little…distant." Elladan rested a hand on the back of his chair, looking over his shoulder. "Is there bad news?"

"I was just reading a letter from your brother."

Elladan assumed a look of mild alarm. "You didn't contradict me—is it good or bad news?"

"To tell you the truth, I don't quite know. It's one of the vaguest letters I've received from him since the last time he was stabbed."

Elrohir winced. "I wish you wouldn't put it that way."

"At least he's improving a little," Elladan observed. "He did come right out and tell us about that broken wrist last year."

Elrond wasn't encouraged. "And you really believe that was the extent of his injuries?"

"True," Elladan conceded.

"Are there any other indications as to what the problem might be this time?" Elrohir asked nervously.

"No, all he does is briefly mention 'an injury'—and then of course skips right on ahead to the part where he's—"

"—Fine," the twins echoed each other, sighing.

"Actually he just says he is 'well now', whatever that is supposed to mean. If any of this sudden need of his for secrecy is connected to all those conspiracy rumors coming from Rohan, than I worry greatly about what sort of trouble he's gotten himself into."

"Knowing Estel, he's right in the middle of whatever it is, getting himself beaten up, shot at, stabbed, and who-knows-what-else," Elladan muttered, a gleam of brotherly protectiveness in his eyes.

"Why, _why_, couldn't he have been clearer?" Elrond bemoaned. "Does he have any idea how much I worry about him? What goes through his head?"

The twins nodded, although they did understand what had probably been going through Estel's head. The same thing that went through their heads every time they got into trouble and wanted to send a report that would keep Elrond from worrying. Estel never was as good as them at that kind of subtlety, though. He should have known better than to try this.

"Can I see the letter?" Elrohir asked.

Elrond handed it to him. "Of course." His mouth curved into a wry smile. "Perhaps one of you will have more insight as to how your brother's mind works."

Elladan peered over Elrohir's shoulder and they read it together. No enlightenment dawned on either face, but there was frustration in abundance.

"What goes through his _head_?" Elladan burst out once he was through. "Did he even think for a moment that we might want to know exactly _how_ injured he is?" He threw a hand up in exasperation. "He was '_injured_', was he? For all we know—and _from_ all we know of Estel—that could mean anything from a sliver to poisoning."

Elrohir winced again at the phrasing, and tried to be optimistic. "Perhaps we should stop assuming the worst?" It only took a moment's contemplation before he amended, with a soft sigh, "Never mind…"

"Ada." Elladan voice was even to the point of sounding detached—a bad sign—and he had a rebellious flash in his eyes that clearly meant he'd already made up his mind on something.

Elrond was tempted to say no straight off, without even having heard whatever his son was about to say. He could make a fair guess. However, thousands of years' worth of parenting had taught him a few things. Like not to flat-out refuse an unvoiced request from his full-grown and entirely-too-stubborn eldest son, simply because he sensed it was going to be a disastrous idea. "What?"

"I want to go see Estel."

Elrond nearly let his head slump forward for an abrupt meeting with the surface of his desk. One solid thump—and there was nice, quiet, undisturbed unconsciousness. He restrained himself. More of the invaluable parenting wisdom of the ages, his thorough lessons hard-learned, came helpfully to mind. He kept his mouth shut. Then he waited for Elrohir to chime in, as he knew he would. And sure enough, he did, following his twin in bold rebellion with a defiant lift of his chin.

"I want to go as well."

The door was looking extremely inviting now, but the coward's way out was not an option. "We've talked about this before." As if they didn't _know_ that perfectly well… "I don't think it is a wise idea."

"Ada…"

"Elladan, Estel is striving to find his place among men, and, as much as I worry about him, the fact that he is still alive and has achieved such a position of power and respect in Rohan is proof that he's doing well enough."

"But _Ada_…"

"Elladan, you will listen to me," Elrond enforced sternly. Elladan shut his mouth, but his posture remained determined. "We don't know where things stand for him just now, especially," he indicated the letter, which had once more been deposited on the desk, "after this latest _detailed_ report. Whatever was going on seems to be settled now. In past letters, Estel has expressed some recent desire to move elsewhere. If he were to do so, you might arrive in Rohan only to discover him gone."

"But Ada, if he had, we could just follow him there. It might take some time, but Elladan and I haven't been on a long journey for some time. We wouldn't mind. It would be worth it."

"Elrohir," Elrond spoke his name more as a sigh. "You know Estel as well as I do. He has a tendency to move on without telling anyone where he's going. I think half the time _he_ doesn't know where he's going."

"Ada…"

Oh dear Eru. Now Elladan was giving him that look. They both were. That sad, pleading look that both of them had used on him when they were elflings, and had taught Estel to use to his own advantage as a child. Or perhaps all three of them came by it naturally. In any case, it was something he found himself giving in to far more often than he intended to. But he would be firm.

"Elladan, I do not think it would be wise," he reiterated. "How can you even know your brother wants you springing unexpected visits on him?" That was a ridiculous excuse if ever he'd heard one. The day Estel didn't want his brothers coming to visit him… Well, it would never come.

"I miss him so much. Never has time seemed to pass so slowly. His being gone for so long, without knowing when he'll return…or even _if_ he'll return…" Elladan shook his head, as if in denial of the possibility he'd just mentioned. "It feels too much like he's dead. He's _mortal_, Ada. Dúnadain or not, he will die one day, and no matter when that day is it will be too soon."

"Elladan…" Elrond had thought about this too many times himself. Hated thinking about. He hated hearing it even more.

But Elladan didn't stop, not to spare any of them the pain of hearing the truth spoken out loud. "It can be all too easy to take immortality for granted. But we don't have thousands of years to spend with Estel. We don't have a single day of Estel's life to waste. Ten years—twenty, thirty—it doesn't mean much at all to us. Someday, when our hearts begin to feel the passing of years, then we will go to the West. Someday Estel will _be_ old, and he won't go to the West. And I cannot stand to ignore those facts as if they don't exist, and let so many years pass without seeing him."

Elrohir stood in tight-lipped and somber agreement.

Elrond, who had closed his eyes during the bombardment of words, opened them now, and smiled sadly. "He is not going to become ancient on us overnight, you know. But…you are right. The same has thoughts have been on my mind as well."

"Then you understand why we have to go see him," Elrohir said softly. "He would wish to see you as well."

Elrond smiled less sadly. "I think the three of us at once might be a bit too much for your poor brother." But the thought of seeing Estel again himself sent a wistful thrill through him. "And I still do not think _you_ should go yet, either."

Now Elladan looked like he was contemplating trying out his head's compatibility with the desk. "I thought—"

"You assumed," Elrond corrected. "And you are assuming again. I did not say you should not go at _all_. However, my heart tells me that now is not the right time. You brother will need the encouragement of your presence in the years to come. He carries a heavy burden, and it is invisible to those around him since the weight he carries must yet be kept a secret. But we will need to make our decision wisely, and not interrupt his life in the _wrong_ way."

"When, Ada? I know Estel misses us as much as we miss him," Elrohir stated with quiet conviction. "And he is not _home_."

"We shall see, ion-nín, we shall see."

**---o—oOo—o---**

"Ah, mellon-nin, you've been gone too long." _And I'm beginning to count the years like a human._

It was late, and Legolas' room was mostly swallowed by shadows. The halls of the Palace of Mirkwood were at peace, and silent in sleep. Only the nocturnal noises of the forest kept him company. Legolas sat in the window-seat in his room, long legs stretched out before him, alternately gazing at the night sky, and the letter in his lap, illuminated by the silver glow of moon and stars.

There were some nights it just wasn't worth the effort to try to force yourself to sleep. Tonight was one of them. Legolas knew even before he'd tried—knew as soon as he'd begun reading Estel's letter—that tonight would be a night for reflecting, and remembering. And wishful thinking.

"You've been gone far, far too long," he whispered again, wishing there was some way his words could reach his friend. "What's keeping you away? Why don't you return, even for just a short time?" Oh, he knew this time was important for Estel, that there was much he needed to do and experience, that he was learning valuable things that would stand him in good stead when the time to claim his future came, things he couldn't have learned or experienced among the elves, or even the Rangers. But it was hard, sometimes to make his heart understand what his head agreed with.

Surely Estel knew they were all missing him terribly by know. If he knew the twins, they were begging annually—or probably more like _daily_—for their father's approval of a journey to Rohan. He knew he'd been debating the same decision himself. But every time he got close to giving in, Elrond's face would appear in his mind like an apparition, reminding him sternly of all the reasons why it would be a _bad_ idea to go wreaking havoc with Estel's carefully-established life like that.

_Wreak havoc…_ Certainly not. Neither the twins nor he would ever dream of interfering in Estel's life like that. They'd just…liven it up a bit. From the tone his letters were taking lately, the human obviously was in need of a little disruption of the more familiar kind, the kind of "safe," happy, relatively low-level chaos that could only be associated with family and close friends. _And probably in need of some medical attention too, from the sound of it._

Legolas bit his lip at the thought, and finished re-reading the letter for the third time. Estel made it pretty clear that he'd been injured. He mentioned—in a by-the-way-I-nearly-died-but-don't-be-concerned kind of way—that he'd been stabbed. He had, of course, immediately afterwards reassured Legolas that he was fine now. But Legolas had a very bad feeling about most of the letter. For one thing, he had the sinking feeling that Estel had been far more seriously injured than he he'd said. _Nothing new there—only this time I can't be there, when he falls over unconscious, to say "I told you so." Or to make sure he's taken care of afterwards._ The very fact that he'd been so quick to reassure Legolas probably meant he wasn't fine. "Fine" had always had a loose interpretation among the three sons of Elrond. Not that _he_ ever used the word out of context.

Legolas had to wonder how much Estel had told Elrond. Maybe he'd discreetly understated the extent of his stab wound, and told Elrond he'd been _nicked_ by a dagger the other day? More likely, he'd just conveniently forgotten to mention anything at all. Aye, that sounded like the Estel he knew.

But, for all his occasional discrepancies where his health was concerned, and for all his peculiar human traits…He was _their_ Estel, not Rohan's "Thorongil."

Eru, he missed him.

He knew that if these years had felt like a long time to him, they'd been even longer to Estel. It filled him with apprehension to think that his friend might have changed, grown up beyond their friendship. From the sound of it, Estel had secured himself a place in Meduseld that transcended the mere relationship of a soldier to his liege-lord and his family.

Although he didn't say anything about anyone accepting him or loving him like family, it was quite obvious that Estel himself loved and accepted quiet a few people there. And since when had his friend called someone else friend and not been accepted as such in return? In his experience, Estel picked up friends at a bewildering rate, oftentimes quite inadvertently. Actually, an alarming amount of people tended to take one look at Estel, and then promptly try to "adopt" him. Never mind his age, something about Estel compelled people to care about what happened to him.

But who knew, perhaps Estel had picked up some knowledge of the world and become a little more experienced when it came to people. The thought of Estel becoming at least a little more skeptical when it came to people probably should have been a consolation, but it wasn't. Legolas felt a deep sadness to think of his friend possibly becoming cynical about trust, where he used to be so open.

But that was just speculation. For all he knew, Estel was the same impossibly young-looking, impossibly young-acting, and at times impossibly naive man he'd known for years. He hoped so. And if Estel had become cynical and hardened too far from his time spent out in the wide world… Well then, he needed his _mellon_ now more than ever.

Legolas smiled as his friend's face came to mind, grinning incorrigibly as only he could. He felt suddenly foolish even considering that Estel's feelings about their friendship might have changed, that he might now feel they had drifted apart during the time they had been separated—so short for an elf, but so much longer for a human, even one of the Dúnedain. Of course he they hadn't. _He_ himself was the traitor if he thought otherwise. Estel wrote him letters as if they'd just seen each other the other day, as if nothing had changed between them. Because nothing had changed between them. Friendship like they had didn't waver or become less because they were separated by a measly several hundred miles.

He rested his head against the wall behind him, inhaling deeply. It had simply been too long. If doubts about their friendship were beginning to invade his mind, then it was definitely time he went and saw Estel for himself. He understood why the human felt the need to go and immerse himself in human society and stay there for a while, but that didn't mean he couldn't follow. In the first years after Estel had left, he kept on telling himself he had to wait. Well, now he'd waited.

_Mellon-nín an-uireb. Gwador-nín an-uireb. Rinno mar, Estel, ana nosse-lyaa . And __lín__garo-cirith. Rinno ammen. Rinno…ben im thel-hilya. _

He couldn't, of course, leave that very night, as much as he was tempted to. Or even the next day, or week. But he wouldn't wait much longer. First, he'd need to warm his father, gradually, to the idea. Then, a trip to Rivendell was in order. He had a conspiracy to plan with two deviously-minded elflings—and the Lord of Rivendell to convince.

"Ah, Estel, the things I do for friendship…"

And as he looked out at the stars—Eärendil shining first and foremost among them all—he wondered if his friend might not be looking at the very same sky, and missing him just as much.

**The Real End**

_Evlish translation: My friend for eternity. My brother for eternity. Return home, Estel, to your family. Long years pass. Return to us. Return…or I will follow._

**_Well, it's been quite the trip! Thank you, all, for the encouragement along the way. I hope the ending has proved satisfactory to y'all. :o)_**

**_As regards a sequel... I have few thoughts for a direct sequel to this story, and quite a few more for a Thorongil-in-Gondor story (taking place a number of years in the future, but also somewhat of a sequel to TWoP). I have already begun the Gondor one, but given my current state of being stuck in a depressed writer's block induced slump, I really don't know when, or if, that could happen. Whether or not I succeed in getting myself un-stuck, I'd like to thank Ainu Laire for the friendly pushing she's doing towards that end (she's already helped me a ton with the plot and logistics of it, as well as with becoming re-inspired). :o)_**

**_Again, you guys have all been wonderful--thank you! I'd really appreciate it if you'd let me know what you think, now that it's all here. (Again, Nef displays her subtlety in requesting feedback... -bg-) _**


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